


Rat's Nest

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Set in Rat's Nest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-10-13 01:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10503318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Where Grif most definitely isn’t struggling with his new title and where Simmons most definitely isn’t jealous and they both most definitely don’t miss Blood Gulch.





	1. I Would Just Like to Let Everyone Know That I Suck

“I hate you,” Simmons declared and looked down at his hands. He closed them in frustration before repeating his thoughts again. “Did I mention that I hate you? ‘cause that is what I do. Hate you.”

Grif shrugged and the bag he was carrying began to slip off his shoulder again. They had not been allowed to bring much with them but they had never had many personal items in Blood Gulch anyway. An old photograph, some worn t-shirts and a pack of snacks or two had been easy to pack. “Sorry, didn’t hear you.”

“I don’t _understand_.” Simmons let out a groan and his hands flew to the sides of his helmets. “Why _you_?!”

His tone had a dark edge to it that annoyed Grif enough to feel offended. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

“That you’re _the_ most incompetent soldier I’ve ever met. They could have picked anyone else in the canyon and they would be a better Sergeant than you. Hell, they could have picked Caboose and-“

“Caboose’s a Blue,” Grif pointed out as they walked past yet another red banner. For a moment he almost thought that this would be Sarge’s ideal home – until he remembered how to old man had refused to leave Blood Gulch.

“I know,” Simmons replied with a snort. “And they’d still prefer him.”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

Simmons turned his head sharply to stare directly at his teammate. “Even you have to see that this is unfair. You’re the one who’s… And I’m… Look, there’s no logical reason to choose you. This place has to be filled with giant idiots…”

He trailed off as they rounded a corner and suddenly found themselves face to face with their new teammates.

The three Reds did not look particularly welcoming, slowly crossing their arms as the newcomers halted in front of them. But that could all be caused by Simmons’ comment which they had obviously heard.

Grif felt the cyborg next to him twitch in horror.

One of the red soldiers lifted his head in something that looked like approval and said with a formal voice, “Sergeant Grif!” His tone darkened when his visor turned towards the person next to him, “and Private Simmons, I suppose.”

Simmons let out a small whimper that only Grif heard and raised his hand in a weak welcoming gesture. He let it fall back down after a brief second.

“I’m Lieutenant Adamm.” The one in the front puffed out his chestplate and then shrugged towards the soldiers a few steps behind him.  “That’s Kohl and Snell. We’re happy to welcome you to Rat’s Nest, sir.”

Their helmets tilted upwards, as If expecting Grif to say something. When even Simmons put his stare upon him, the orange soldier reached up to run his neck while saying, “Sure.”

“I’m afraid the official welcoming will first be tomorrow. But we have arranged a private tour to get you settled in.”

“You should show me the way to the kitchen then,” Grif suggested with a shrug. There was a joking tone in his voice that only Simmons seemed to detect.

The three red soldiers, only being differentiated by the small parts of yellow that were placed on either the arm, shoulder or leg plates, all shared a glance.

 “That could be arranged,” the left one, Snell, said gingerly after some seconds.

“Certainly,” Adamm then declared with a short nod. “I’m sure our base will surpass your expectations, Sir. Especially if they have been that low.” His helmet tipped forward as he stared at Simmons with what only could be a dark glare.

Simmons definitely felt the passive aggressiveness and began to excuse himself, voice cracking slightly, “I didn’t mean to-”

“If you would follow us, Sergeant Grif,” Adamms cut him off briskly, finally turning his visor so he could gesture for Grif to head down the right hallway.

Simmons, sensing that he was not welcome, let out a defeated sigh. “I’ll just go… shoot myself,” he ended his sentence in a mutter.

“That way, Private,” Kohl snorted, tilting his head to the left, and then proceeded to almost brush shoulder with Simmons as he hurried in the other direction.

“Thanks,” Simmons said dryly, eyes narrowing behind the visor.

“You’ve been assigned to quarters 07B.” Simmons had to stare at the Lieutenant for three more seconds before he cared to explain, “It’s the end of the left hall.”

“Okay…”

“This way, Sergeant Grif.”

Simmons turned his head to see Grif being led away by Adamms. The orange soldier sent the cyborg a shrug before he began to walk away. As if frozen, Simmons remained where he was, even when Snell, as the last one to join the group, began to walk down the hallway and sneered when he walked past him, “Giant idiot.”

Inhaling deeply in defeat, Simmons let his chin rest against his chest-plate. He had suspected that Rat’s Nest would suck but this was giving him flash-backs of his first day in High School.

And those were memories he would rather not revisit.

Sarge was not here to tell him what to do and Grif had not really given any orders yet, so Simmons straightened out his back, tightened his grip on his shoulder bag, and began to walk down the hall in the opposite direction of where the others had gone.

The quarters were fairly easy to find, with the numbers guiding him the right way. The hallways were quiet with the exceptions of some faint echoes which Simmons guessed belonged to soldiers on patrol. The journey to Rat’s Nest had taken longer than expected and his HUD informed him that they were close to 10pm. Most of the day’s activities must have ended then.

When he found the right door, 07B, Simmons hesitated, arm half-heartily lifted to knock. Should he knock? Or was that a sign of awkwardness? It was going to be his room, after all.

On the other hand, things could barely get worse from here. At least he had not called his new bunkmates for giant idiots yet.

Simmons knocked just for formality’s sake, and then opened door before someone could answer. Not that it mattered – the room was empty.

It was smaller than the one he had shared with Grif back in Blood Gulch. A bunkbed on one side and then a dresser just across it. Simmons placed his bag on it, unsure of which bed that belonged to him.

Pulling out a drawer, he discovered that the left side of it was empty. He immediately began to unpack the clothes he had brought with him for then to fold it and place it inside the dresser. It kept his hands busy.

His bag was pretty much empty after that.

Just a single picture frame, showing the team back in Blood Gulch. Sarge in the front, cocking his shotgun. Donut with his arms around Lopez and Simmons. And to the left side of it was Grif, on his way to sneak out of the frame, and he would have succeeded had Simmons not grabbed his elbow just before the camera flashed.

Simmons debated whether to put it on top of the drawer but then decided to hide it in the inside the furniture between two of his night-shirts.

Right now he could not dare to intrude on his missing bunkmate’s personal space.

* * *

“One week. Tops,” Simmons declared sternly. He was now in Grif’s new room, which was notably bigger than the Privates’. When Simmons’ bunkmate had not appeared ten minutes after his arrival, even after Simmons had taken off his armor to wear something more comfortable, the silence had crept up on him until he had ventured out in the hallways again in the search for the Sergeant’s quarters.

Grif has returned about five minutes after Simmons had begun to wait outside the door. Hiding behind the corner until he was sure that Adamm, Snell and Kohl had left, Simmons had eventually knocked on the door only to be dragged inside by Grif who seemed happy for the company.

He had eagerly explained about the place’s motorpool. There had been a tone of excitement in his voice, one that Simmons was not used to, and that had only caused him to frown. Eventually he had changed the conversation into something that was easier to talk about (or at least argue about) –Grif’s promotion.

“Ah, don’t be like that, Simmons.” Grif sat on his new bed, opening a package of snackcakes he had somehow managed to snatch during the tour. He looked up at Simmons as he said, “At least two weeks.”

“Want to bet?”

“Depends.” Grif tilted his head. “Do you have anything I like?”

“That doesn’t really matter since you’re not going to win,” Simmons snorted and reached out with his metal hand to snatch one of the cakes before Grif could eat them all. “They have to find out about your incompetence sooner or later. Sooner, if I know you well. Which I do.”

Grif smirked and licked some chocolate off his finger. “If I’m that incompetent then why did they choose me?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out. Maybe it’s some sort of social experiment? To see what people will do when they’re forced to take orders from an absolute dumbass.”

“Now you’re just being paranoid. No one would be bored enough to watch us do shit.” Grif waved him off. “You’re just afraid to admit that they liked me better than you.”

“Social. Experiment,” Simmons repeated sternly. After having thought about this illogical choice for a while (and he had been thinking about it ever since it was announced), he had come up with the fact that this had to be the most plausible explanation. “No way they’re serious about this.”

Grif shrugged, eying the snacks again. “So when will you start calling me ‘sir’? ‘cause I feel you’re actually disrespecting me right now.”

“Well, I’m not gonna you call you it when you’re wearing _that_ ,” Simmons said with distaste in his voice and a nod towards Grif’s current outfit. The cyborg could not remember a single time the t-shirt had been washed. It was too big, even for Grif, worn enough for holes to start to appear, it was orange, of course, and then had the words _THIS IS MY HAWAIIAN SHIRT_ written over it. It smelled, too, but Simmons had grown so used to it that it only felt comfortingly familiar.

It was hard to imagine Grif as a Sergeant when he was wearing that. Truth to be told, it was hard to imagine Grif as a Sergeant in any scenario, but Simmons knew that when they training began tomorrow, old habits would creep up on him. Despite the fact that Grif was Grif.

“If you disrespect me in front of my troop tomorrow I’m going to have to punish you.” Grif sounded just a bit too amused at the thought, so Simmons decided to rebel by stealing the last cake right in front of him. It did not cause the reaction as expected. Instead Grif just tilted his head. There was an unreadable glint in his eyes. “You know, if you suck up enough for me, I might promote you to Super Private, Double First Class.”

Simmons froze, considering the offer. A promotion for what? His dignity? Swallowing down his long-lived desires, he instead spat, “I’m not kissing your ass.”

“C’mon, Simmons. You kissed Sarge’s ass for years. What’s wrong with mine?”

“It’s fat for a start.”

Despite his frown, Grif did not look irritated at the comment. “That is not how you suck up, Simmons.” He groaned slightly before letting himself fall backwards, now resting on top of the bed. He placed his hands behind his head. “You know you can’t escape it. It’s your nature to be a kissass. I’m your new ‘sir’ now.”

Simmons looked away to hide the sudden discomfort that sentence caused him. “They first introduce you to the others tomorrow. Until then I’d like to think of this as a joke gone wrong.”

“Just what would the punchline be in that joke, Simmons?”

“Me. Probably. It usually is.” Simmons looked down at his hands. “I should probably head back to my quarters. At least this bunkmate can’t snore louder than you. It’s not physically possible.”

“So you’ve met the poor idiot who’s stuck with you?” Grif’s voice sounded genuinely curious. He had even raised his head a bit to look at Simmons’ face.

The cyborg was already standing up but froze to continue the conversation. “Not really. He wasn’t there when I checked in earlier.”

“Huh. Does he know about the-“ Instead of finishing his sentence, Grif instead gestured towards his own face with a hand, fingers spread out.

Simmons blinked, not understanding immediately. “What?”

“Your face’s half a metal bucket, Simmons. It might surprise someone.”

“Oh.” Suddenly conscious of his looks, the cyborg felt his own cheeks burn. It had never been a problem back in Blood Gulch, but on the other hand, those people had also been the ones performing the surgery on him. “Hadn’t really thought of that.”

“Just saying you might want to give them a heads up,” Grif said rather casually, looking at the ceiling again. “Wouldn’t want them going around screaming ‘Terminator’. Wait, that’s actually pretty cool. You should totally let them do that.”

“Well, what about you? Your face is-“

“My face is magnificent, Simmons.” The voice that cut him off was rather stern but had a light tone to it. It softened a bit as he continued, “Doesn’t really matter anyways. I’m the Sergeant and the Sergeant never takes off his helmet. It’s a sign of weakness.”

Simmons began to walk towards the door, sensing the conversation was about to end. It had been a long day, after all. It was not every day that you were forced to leave the place that had been your home for years. “You know that’s just something Sarge said, right?”

“Well, I don’t really know shit about being a Sergeant so I’m gonna have to take his word for it.” Grif yawned loudly, effectively rubbing off the exhaustion on the other person in the room.  “I’ll be taking my nap now. Travelling to new places is exhausting.”

“You were napping the entire time on the ship,” Simmons reminded him with a hand hovering above the door panel.

“And you woke me up before I was ready.”

“We were fucking landing, dumbass.”

“Yeah? I still wasn’t ready.”    

To be fair, neither of them seemed to have been ready for this. Especially not Donut. Poor guy had sobbed the day that they had been given their orders. Sarge had been more distant to the problem, simply denying it. Simmons still remembered the way his eyebrows had furrowed this morning when the ship had announced its arrival.

 Simmons opened the door, his back turned to Grif. “Just try not to be too much of an embarrassment tomorrow. We have Blood Gulch’s name on the line.”

“Well, that place was a shithole so nothing to worry about then.”

The door slid close behind him, and Simmons discovered that the lights in the hallways had been dimmed during the time he had spent in Grif’s room. The base seemed even quieter now, somehow.

Simmons snuck back to his quarters, not even getting lost once. There he found to his surprise that he was unable to open the door.

After enough attempts to unlock it, followed by a desperate knocking, a voice finally called out from inside the room, “What’s the password?”

“Wha- what?” Simmons stuttered, blinking. He had not been informed of this. He would have remembered, certainly. “I mean, sorry for not following protocol, but I’m kinda new here. I haven’t heard anything of a password…”

“Oh, I’m just kidding. There’s not password,” the voice continued. It sounded rather young but with a slightly mocking tone to it, like a chuckle was hiding at the end of the sentence.

“Oh. Great.  I guess.” Simmons inhaled slowly, still facing the door. “So any chance you could let me in now?”

“You see, instead we have something called rules. And one of those rules says everyone must be in their quarters before curfew.”

Simmons should have expected that. It was logical though he’d preferred if he had actually been informed of it. There had been no curfew in Blood Gulch, mainly because the sun never moved and Sarge was fond of surprise midnight attacks. “Yeah, okay, I get that, I really do but-“

“And unfortunately for you curfew began 24 minutes ago.”

Simmons clenched his teeth, holding back either a scream of frustration or a string of swearwords. “Yes, sorry, I didn’t notice… Look, it’s my first day here and-“

“Let me give you an introduction then,” the voice purred. “My name’s Owen, this is my home, and the only reason why we’ve made it so in this far is because we follow the rules.”

“Nothing to worry about then!” Simmons did his best to sound cheerful and believable – a task that should have been easier than what it felt like right now. “I _love_ rules, really, just ask-“

“Then maybe you shouldn’t go around breaking them,” Owen replied smoothly.

Simmons dropped his jaw. “Seriously?”

“Goodnight.”

“No, no, no, no. C’mon. Owen. Buddy.” He began to knock on the door again. “Please let me in. I didn’t mean to… It was all Grif’s…” Simmons then heard the audible _click_ of a light switch being flicked off. “…fault.”

Simmons slammed his forehead against the door in frustration and truly tried to convince himself that the cold touch of metal against his skin was comforting.

* * *

“M’sleeping!” Grif called out when someone knocked on his door. He knew, after being informed of it too many times, that this new job involved new responsibilities but that did not give them the right to wake him up in the middle of the night. There should be a rule about that. Maybe he could make one?

“No you’re not. You wouldn’t be talking to me if you were sleeping.”

At least it was not one of the new, strange assholes. Grif rolled over with a groan but did call out, “What do you want, Simmons?”

“Can I come in?”

Simmons’ voice was quiet enough to make Grif leave the bed and unlock the door. Outside was the cyborg, eyes fixated on the floor and with a distressed frown on his face. “What, roommate kicked you out?” Grif asked as he let him in. “That was fast.”

“Something like that…” he said. “Apparently the doors lock after curfew and, well, I couldn’t get in.”

Grif snorted loudly and locked the door to be sure no one else would disturb him later. “So you came here to, what, share a bed?”

“You’re too fat,” Simmons replied quickly. “I wouldn’t even get a quarter of it.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” He quickly crawled under his blanket again but kept his eyes open so he could stare at the cyborg who still had not moved.

Simmons’ head was still tilted downwards. “Just… Let me sleep on the floor for the night.”

“That’s just sad.” Grif sighed but then rolled over, pressing his back against the wall in order to make as much space as possible. He lifted the blanket to show the empty side of the bed to Simmons. “Look, I’m not offering this again. This is a very big sacrifice for me. You better feel grateful.”

“Fine.” Simmons lifted his stare and revealed his blushing cheeks. “But we’re never talking about this, okay? The others can’t know. They’d just… You know.”

“Yeah, and I’d rather not get fired for unacceptable bed-sharing with an inferior.”

“Stop putting it like that.”

Simmons’ cheeks had reached a whole new shade of red as he crawled into the bed. It was not like they had not done it before since Grif had apparently required both of their blankets on the truly cold nights back in the canyon. In order not to lose his own body heat, Simmons had been forced to come along with his blanket.

They both rolled over so they were lying back to back.

 “Almost like Blood Gulch, huh?” Grif asked jokingly after a while.

“I guess,” Simmons answered quietly and then pressed his eyes closed so that he could pretend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I have a proper reason for starting a new story? No. Do I have some excuses? Yes. First of all, I hate the number 13 due to a superstitious upbringing so I really couldn’t stand that my profile said works (13). That had to be fixed. Then I felt you all deserved some happiness after my cruel one-shot (I even gave you a bed-sharing scene just too be kind). And then there’s the fact that I’ll be completing “Seeing Red” with the next update so I won’t be having 4 WIP’s for too long.
> 
> The first two chapters have been half-written since November, slowly rotting in my folders. It was originally supposed to be a bunch of one-shots but then I decided to play with Owen’s role and suddenly I had a plot.


	2. I'm Sure There's a Philosophical Lesson To Be Learned From All This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif kept staring at him, even while searching for his lighter and eventually managing to light his cigarette. He blew the smoke in Simmons’ direction and the cyborg was grateful for the fact that he was still wearing a helmet.
> 
> He never said anything, and eventually it was Simmons who broke the silence, “You’re not allowed to smoke inside the base.”
> 
> “I don’t think you are allowed to give me orders,” Grif reminded him. “’sides, I can just change the rules now.”

Simmons was a responsible soldier so of course he had set his alarm so he could get himself ready before the morning meeting.

And of course Grif was irresponsible enough to sleep on carelessly.

It took him a couple of seconds to realize where he was. Or rather; where he wasn’t. The room looked nothing like the quarters he had shared with Grif back in Blood Gulch. The only thing familiar was the comforting warmth of Grif’s back against his own.

Not that bed-sharing had been a part of their daily routine. That would be weird, of course. It had just happened a few times before. But not enough to make it weird.

Simmons threw himself out of the bed so quickly he managed to kick Grif in the process. He did not apologize, seeing this was probably the best way to wake up the Hawaiian. Grif grunted and rolled over.

“Get up,” Simmons ordered without looking over his shoulder. He had placed himself in front of the mirror, trying to straighten out his night wear so he looked somewhat appropriate. Should he run into someone he could tell them he had gone to the bathroom. No one would ever suspect he had been here. The thought alone…

He just had to make sure he would not be seen. Oh god, just imaging his fellow soldiers’ reactions…

“Grif, get the fuck up!” Simmons had to hiss again. He could not raise his voice in fear of someone hearing them.

“Five more minutes,” Grif muttered into his pillow. Well, they were almost back to Blood Gulch routine at this point. Except…

“You can’t have five more minutes! You’re a Sergeant now!” The moment the words slipped past his lips, he froze as he tried to realize just what he had said. “Oh my god, this is so wrong.”

Grif was as limp as a body, face still buried in the pillow. Simmons marched over to grab him by the shoulder, pulling him upwards. “Grif. Up. Now.”

“I’m a Sergeant,” Grif reminded him without opening his eyes. “I’m ordering you let me sleep.”

Simmons inhaled sharply. “ _Fine_. But you’re the one who is in charge of the morning meeting less than two hours for now. Just felt like reminding you. _Sergeant._ ”

Grif finally opened his eyes. “Did you just blush when you called me _Sergeant_?”

Since he was still facing the mirror, Simmons had no way of escaping the sight of his own red face. “My cheeks are flushed. With anger.”

“Shit, are you still whining about this?” Grif was actually sitting up now, one hand buried in his messy hair. His eyes were still clouded with sleep but he was staring at Simmons. “When are you gonna give up on that shit?”

“Uhm, maybe when things get sorted out? And life starts making sense again.”

Grif yawned, stretching out his arms over his head. His “Hawaiian shirt” was so worn there was a long hole near his armpit. Simmons considered whether to just throw it out with the trash when Grif was not looking.

“Seems like you’re going to be bitter for a long time then, Simmons. Sucks to be you.”

“Yes, it does,” the cyborg replied dryly before turning away. “You better get your fat ass ready so we can actually have a meeting to attend. Or, wait, why do I even care? If you fail at this they might fire you and we have reestablished the ways of the universe.”

“Or I could just tell them I was late ‘cause I had to deal with a Private in my bed.”

Simmons’ cheeks turned pale. “You wouldn’t.”

“Chill, Simmons. Remember to smile. First day and first impressions and all that shit.” Grif had pulled his blanket around himself, looking absolutely ridiculous. There was a fifty percent chance he would just go back to sleep when Simmons left.

The only reason Simmons did not slam the door behind him as he marched out of the Sergeant’s quarters was due to his fear of being discovered as he entered the hallway.

By setting his alarm half an hour earlier than what he normally would (and Simmons always made sure to have a good preparation time), Simmons checked if the hallways were still empty before he hurried his way back to his own room. Now he just hoped the door would be open. But who knew if the jerk also insisted that you could knock too early?

But the door opened with no troubles as Simmons slowly peeked in. Maybe the asshole had left the room already-

-but of course he had not.

His roommate – Owen – had already left his bed and was standing by the drawer, putting on armor. Simmons just managed to catch a glimpse of a well-trained arm before he finished getting in the black under-suit.

Simmons already had his defenses up, expecting more mockery.

But Owen just turned his head to say cheerfully, “Good morning.” He was smiling brightly, and it seemed honest. Simmons looked for any trace of sarcasm but found none.

Owen tilted his head slightly. He was not wearing his helmet yet so Simmons was free to analyze his face. It looked rather sculpted with a prominent chin and cheekbones. His brown hair was rather short, as if he had been through the standard military haircut not too long ago.

The first impression reminded Simmons of the sport freaks that had once shoved him into a locker back in High School. But Owen’s blue eyes were focused in the same way the components had glanced at Simmons during an important match of chess; the pupils danced back and forth, revealing deep thoughts as he analyzed the next move.

But Simmons decided to focus on the smile; it was warm and welcoming in a way he had not seen in a long while.

“Hey,” he said weakly, closing the door behind him. He was ready to bolt, though, with the excuse of a sudden need of a bathroom stall.

“I hope you slept well,” Owen continued in the same gentle tone. “I know the benches in the locker room torture your back.”

The Private finished putting on the leg armor, red tainted with black stripes, and he straightened out his back to stare at Simmons. He seemed to notice the growing frown on Simmons’ face. “Oh, and sorry for yesterday. But your first impression was not exactly optimal.”

“I didn’t mean-“

Owen held up a gloved hand. “No worries. See, now you know why the curfew must be obeyed. And I suppose you won’t go around breaking it again. None of us have to worry about rule-breaking now, so all is smooth from here. Right?”

“I guess?” Owen seemed sure of his point and Simmons did not feel for talking against it. At least his roommate had seemed to forgiven him.

“ _Great_! I’ve heard good things about you, Private Simmons.”

Simmons blinked. “You… You have?”

“Oh yes! Not much, but who could ever complain about a new and ready and alive roommate!” Owen was still smiling at him, and Simmons slowly found the strength to return it.

Until he thought further about that compliment. “Thanks. But… what happened to your old roommate?”

“Didn’t follow the rules.”

The reply came quickly and sharply, and Simmons found himself gulping. “Right…”

“Oh, that came out wrong.” Owen chuckled slightly before explaining, “ _I_ didn’t shoot him.”

“That’s good.”

“He snuck out during curfew.”

“Oh…”

“To meet with a Blue,” Owen finished, and suddenly Rat’s Nest seemed a little less terrifying again. But only a little. “Then he got shot.”

Simmons nodded slowly. Of course he would never fraternize with a Blue but apparently Owen had been speaking the truth when he said this place had strict rules. “So I suppose there was a trial…?”

“Oh no; the Blue shot him.” The smile remained even as he talked about the death of a teammate. “Turns out he had been catfished. Lots of lessons to be learned from that, I say.”

Simmons maneuvered around the other Private to get to his armor he had stashed in the corner of the room. He began to change, making sure not to look at Owen as he said, “But, uhm, sorry to hear about your roommate.”

“No worries; guy was an asshole anyway. And he never did his laundry.”

“God, I hate that!” Simmons could not help but exclaim as he fastened his torso piece. “It leaves a smell, not to mention how unhygienic it is. You won’t be having that problem with me.”

“You see; I was sure we would get along just fine.”

“My last roommate wouldn’t even vacuum,” Simmons continued in excitement, happy to finally be able to have someone to vent to. “You can actually _see_ the floor here. It’s…”

He trailed off when he picked up his helmet, realizing just what he was holding.

And what that meant.

Simmons looked up at Owen with a fearful look in his human eye that he could not hide no matter how hard he tried.

But Owen merely shrugged. “Cool face.”

The ever-lasting smile was the only thing that kept Simmons from believing it was a joke. “It’s… It’s a long story,” he said quickly, quickly pulling down his helmet to hide his cyborg parts.

“I’d love to hear it.” Owen’s voice was still friendly and trustworthy. “But right now, we have a meeting to attend. And, boy, I do not want to be late; it would give Sergeant Grif a horrible first impression on me.”

Simmons froze, having finished with the last clasp on his helmet. Unable to hold back a snort, he said, “ _Sergeant_ Grif seems to like bad impressions better than the good ones.”

“Oh. That’s… _Interesting_. You two came from the same base, right?” Owen had opened the door and he even held it for Simmons to step out into the hallway first.

The cyborg almost felt bad for mentally calling Owen an asshole. While he had been an asshole yesterday he seemed to have been locking out Simmons with good intentions. Tough love. Simmons should be able to understand that.

“Yes,” he replied. “Blood Gulch.”

“So you know him well? While I do hate the stalker vibes I can’t deny that gathering personal intel is an effective way of earning a promotion.”

Simmons would have argued – had he been able to. But it was hard to deny how most of Sarge’s praise had been caused by Simmons admiring his leader’s lifestyle. Casually mentioning some common interest or life choices was a good way of earning your superior’s attention.

…But with Grif as their Sergeant, Simmons considered whether to restrategize.

“You want to become a Lieutenant?” the cyborg asked to keep the conversation neutral.

“Of course. Who wants to spend the rest of his days as a _Private_?”

The way he spat out the word with such disgust made Simmons want to feel bad about himself. It was only by remembering that Owen was a Private too as well that he somehow managed not to slouch forward in embarrassment.

 “You going for the promotion as well?” Owen asked him. He was looking down at him since he was taller than Simmons. “You seem like a man with ambitions.”

“I guess,” Simmons answered but kept thinking about the question. “I mean, how can you not _try_ to?”

Owen threw his head back to laugh again. “That is the one question I want to know. There are so many useless folks here, not giving a crap about their own future – or their teammates’.”

“Oh…”

“At least they can always serve as human shields,” Owen replied with a shrug as they stepped inside the mess hall. “There will always be sacrifices in the war against the Blues.”

Simmons tried to laugh at the joke but the sound became more like a weak wheeze.

A soldier suddenly stepped in front of them, blocking their way. Simmons first recognized him when the deep voice spoke, “Sergeant Grif has decided to move the morning meeting.”

“To when?” Owen replied rather coldly, not even greeting Adamms in the first place.

“To now.” Adamms kept his visor focused on Owen. “He declared that we _might as well get it over with_.”

“Ah.” He let out a pleased sound. “And effective leader. I am not complaining.”

“I- I wasn’t complaining.” The Lieutenant stuttered slightly before straightening out his back. “I was telling you to gather with the others.” Then he turned around on his heel, marching away.

When enough distance had been created between them Owen shook his head. “Assholes. Assholes everywhere.”

Simmons had to mentally agree.

“The only reason why he got his promotion was because he was our late Sergeant’s cousin. Or something like that.” Owen huffed as he began to lead Simmons towards the part of the base where the meeting would take place. “It’s an unfair world, Simmons.”

“Yep,” Simmons replied and tried to find the humor in his answer.

It was almost a relief to see Grif. He was hopelessly sticking out in a sea of red with his orange armor, and it did not help that everyone was staring at him. While Simmons knew that Grif was above blushing from being flustered, the Hawaiian did look rather uncomfortable. He kept a hand on the back of his neck, glancing around the room, and truly did look like he might as well get it over with.

He looked up when he spotted Simmons. He did not exactly look happy but he did seem slightly relieved – but it was very possible Simmons was the only person able to spot the difference in their Sergeant’s stance.

“We’re all here now, Sergeant Grif,” Adamms declared proudly.

“Okay?” Grif said and let his hand fall. “I… What were we supposed to do again?”

Simmons could not help but cringe on his friend’s behalf. He glanced around at his group; they seemed to be 14 people gathered now, all in red armor with some few color details to identify people. Simmons had been offered to get a new set of armor but he had not been able to say goodbye to the maroon outfit he had grown so used to.

“We thought you’d like a proper introduction,” Adamms continued after sharing a glance with another soldier.

Grif shrugged but then turned to face the entire group. He almost looked like a true superior, just for a moment. Then he began to speak. “I’m Sergeant Grif. Your Sergeant. You’re… too many people for me to remember your names.”

“I am Private Owen, sir.” His voice was so loud and clear that Simmons could not help but jump in surprise when the soldier right next to him introduced himself. “We’re honored to have you here.”

Grif sent him an unimpressed stare through his visor. “Right.”

There was an awkward silence after that where everyone seemed to be staring at Grif, and Grif was looking at Simmons who could only shrug at the situation.

“So, uhm, sir,” Adamms began. “Do you have a program for us to follow during today’s morning training?”

Simmons prepared himself for the worst.

“Don’t you already have a program?” Grif said with a shrug. “Change is hard. Let’s keep it simple.”

“I suppose we could just follow late Sergeant Patzer’s routine.” Adamms’ suggestions earned him several nods.

It occurred to Simmons that he was still not sure of the former Sergeant’s fate. But now was not the time to ask, especially not with the way other Reds kept sending him glances when they thought he was not looking. He hoped they would stop that after some days, when he was no longer referred to as “the new guy”. But Simmons had had his hopes crushed before.

“Well, that’s a problem solved,” Grif said with a pleased voice. “Good job, guys. Great meeting. Very productive. Time for a break. We’ve earned it.”

“I… Already?”

Grif had crossed his arms as he faced Adamms. “Can a Sergeant not order breaks? A….” He trailed off, searching for the name.

“Adamms. And I suppose we could do a quick morning patrol and then go straight to breakfast.”

“You get to it then.” Grif then turned his head sharply, staring directly at Simmons. The rest of the Reds seemed to follow his glare, and the cyborg flinched under the scrutiny. “Simmons, come help me with some important stuff. _Red_ stuff.”

“Uhm, sure.”

Grif tilted his helmet. “What was that, Simmons?”

Simmons had already taken one step forward when he realized his mistakes. “Sir.”

The tension seemed to retreat from the hallway, being replaced with some weird sort of acceptable confusion. People gave Grif a short nod as he walked by them, Simmons right behind him.

Once he was sure no one could hear them, Simmons allowed himself to relax. “Well, that went well,” he sneered.

“It almost sounded like you were being sarcastic, Private Simmons.”

“I _was_.”

“I _know_.” Grif suddenly stopped, glancing around quickly to see if they were alone. When he felt comfortable, he allowed himself to rest against the wall. “Disrespect doesn’t look good on you, Simmons.”

Simmons huffed. “I look better than you did. What the fuck was that?!”

“That was me introducing myself. Which I did. I don’t know why the fuck they expected more than that!”

“Uh, maybe because you’re the Sergeant? And you have responsibilities?!”

“Hey, I just fulfilled my responsibilities. I said _hi_. If they already have a system that works, why the fuck should I screw it up?” Grif had taken off his helmet, running his free hand through the brown hair.

Simmons looked away to stare at the hallway’s exit. “So, what did you need me for? Plan tomorrow’s program? Do the rest of _your_ duties?”

“That’s one way to get a promotion.” Grif suddenly froze slightly, eyes darting around. “Can we just agree that this place is filled with weird assholes?”

“No arguments from me there.”

For two seconds they both stayed silent. It was strangely comforting to know that he was not the only one that felt out of place. But Grif had always been quick to call other people assholes.

“And what was up with your dude?” Grif’s mismatched colored eyes were staring at Simmons again.

Simmons tried not to fee uncomfortably by the thought of him having a dude, or whatever way Grif had decided to put it. “Who? Owen?”

“Yeah. Fucking Simmons 2.0.”

Choking on air, Simmons sputtered out an offended, “ _I’m_ Simmons 2.0.”

“Well, three point fucking 0 then. What is with you and math?”

“ _Why_ are you saying he’s me?” Simmons demanded and hated how his question ended in a whine.

“Duh, because he is?” Grif rolled his eyes for Simmons to see. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. He seems like an even bigger kiss-ass than you. He left me a fucking welcome note in my room and everything.”

“He did?” Simmons frowned behind his visor. Owen had not mentioned that. “Well… He does want that promotion.”

“He has a better chance of getting it than you have,” Grif suddenly told him. He dropped his helmet to fish out his pack of cigarettes.

Simmons watched in shock. “Wha- _Why_?!”

“cause you’re being a dick, _Dick_.” Grif’s fingers played with the cigarette without actually lighting it. “How ‘bout some support? I’m the one in a stressful position, new title and all that.”

Simmons dropped his jaw for a second. When he was able to speak, he hissed, “Well, I’m the one whose skills were unfairly ignored and now I’m stuck with an incompetent Sergeant who’s probably going to get us all killed!”

Grif kept staring at him, even while searching for his lighter and eventually managing to light his cigarette. He blew the smoke in Simmons’ direction and the cyborg was grateful for the fact that he was still wearing a helmet.

He never said anything, and eventually it was Simmons who broke the silence, “You’re not allowed to smoke inside the base.”

“I don’t think you are allowed to give me orders,” Grif reminded him. “’sides, I can just change the rules now.”

“Ugh, you’re hopelessly.” Simmons looked down at his boots, scraping one of them against the floor. “You could at least try to take your job seriously. Sir.”

“You ask so much of me, Simmons.” He flicked the end of his cigarette, and his eyes followed the ash as it fell. “You’re dismissed or whatever it’s called.”

Simmons did not need to be told that twice.

He marched away quickly, surprised by the fact that he did not get lost on his way back. His feet just carried him along and suddenly he found himself in the mess hall. His breathing had slowed down again at this point though the headache remained.

“Seems you know Sergeant Grif rather well.”

Owen suddenly appeared as Simmons filed his tray. At least the food here seemed more enjoyable than the MREs back in Blood Gulch that had been so old they had probably been in the base before Sarge had been stationed there.

“I guess,” Simmons said and realized his voice still sounded sour. He cleared his throat to get rid of the tone before continuing, “He… It’s his first promotion.”

“Oh.”

“And I don’t really think he is fit that well for the job.” It felt good to say the words out loud. But before Simmons could truly enjoy the feeling of his chest loosening up, he realized Owen might not be the best person to share this to.

Owen was quiet with a tilted head as he took in this information. “Well, nothing wrong with a Sergeant that needs some help. Leaves more opportunities for us, doesn’t it?”

Simmons had by instinct steered towards one of the more empty tables; in fact, only one lonesome person was sitting there. But Owen refused to turn, forcing Simmons to keep walking forwards. “Oh, we don’t want to sit there,” he replied in a tone that kept Simmons from asking further about it.

His stomach dropped in horror when Owen chose a table and Simmons recognized the soldiers in front of him as the persons he had offended yesterday; Kohl and Snell if he remembered correctly. Their helmets were off but he recognized them by their trims.

But Owen sat down and Simmons found himself with no other choice but to do the same. Knowing how stupid he would look if he kept sitting in full armor, just staring at his food, Simmons kept his hands steady enough to remove his own helmet.

“Nice face,” Kohl snorted but his voice turned gentler, more curious as he asked, “How did you end up with that?”

All eyes were now set upon Simmons who was looking away. He had spotted the color orange and realized Grif had been walking through the mess hall and was now standing frozen only a table away.

Simmons gulped, thought about it, and looked at his new teammates. With a steady voice he answered, “I volunteered for a cyborg operation.” The words slipped out of his mouth quickly.

Snell whistled, showing he was impressed. “Never heard of those before. How did you come up with that idea?”

“I… I thought it was cool,” Simmons replied.

He stared at his tray but from the corner of his eyes he could not help but see an orange soldier marching quickly out of the mess hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : Sorry for the wait! The RvB bingo caused around two weeks of delay (but Red Team freaking won so it was so worth it!) but I should have a stable update schedule now. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your support! This story smashed my record of amount of kudos on the first chapter of a story! I am glad to see you are just as excited for this story as I am.
> 
> And I am sorry for throwing out so many OCs. It’s usually not my style but in order to keep the story going I needed some characters and due to canon I could not just bring in every Red and Blue. Caboose will show up, however.
> 
> My outline says this story will be around 9 chapters thought the number might change if some scenes turn shorter or longer than expected.
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for your support! I hope you will stick around!


	3. I Just Think It's Important to Receive Credit for Working While Some People Are In the Back Seat, Monkeying About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What was I supposed to say? I just wanted to give them the simple version.”
> 
> “Yeah,” Grif said and sat up a bit so he could stare right back at him. “And what is the simple version, Simmons?”

Simmons quickly learned there were three different ways of saying the word _‘Sergeant’_. There was the respectful way that his mind would automatically switch to whenever Grif would be placed in what was supposed to be an authority figure situation and where the other Reds would surround them. Simmons’ tone would be stiff but also formal, and the response would be almost instinctual. Then Simmons would realize that the Sergeant was Grif, and then the angry frown was back on his face.

Then there was the sarcastic version of _‘Sergeant’_ when Simmons just simply could not hold back a snort. As he grew more and more comfortable with Owen that tone would appear every once in a while when the other Private asked about their new Sergeant’s skills.

Owen did not seem to mind as long as the slander stayed within their private quarters; as soon as they were surrounded by their fellow soldiers, or if Grif came within line of sight, the tone would become perfectly formal. Unless Owen would be snapping at one of the Privates.

It turned out that Owen had a bite vicious enough to make Simmons feel very grateful for their friendship. But maybe the word ‘friendship’ was taking it too far, and Simmons did not want to feel like he was pressuring the other Red or anything. But Owen did not seem to hang out with anybody else than Simmons, so that decreased the chances of him speaking ill of the cyborg significantly.

Then there was the flustered version of ‘ _Sergeant’_. It was the one that Simmons hated the most but also the one the rarest of three versions. It would only occur when Grif and Simmons were alone together – and that was something that became more and more uncommon.

Grif would… Well, Simmons was not really sure what Grif was doing. Apparently _‘Sergeant-stuff’_ but Simmons knew the Hawaiian well enough to believe that could not be the case. Chances were he was napping or something. But since Grif had done a great job of avoiding Simmons it was hard to know exactly.

Well, it was not like it was Simmons he was avoiding. It was probably Owen and his extreme kissassing. Grif had never liked kissassing. It made sense for him to avoid Owen. And since Simmons was around Owen most of the time, it meant he was avoiding Simmons too.

It was probably for the best. Whenever they were finally facing each other it would usually end in insults. That was rather normal, given their time in Blood Gulch, but it seemed like the long metal hallways of Rat’s Nest made their voice echo, made them sound sharper and harder and there was always this edge to it…

Grif spent most of his time on his own by this point, apparently above the common Privates. Or maybe he had just figured out that everyone in this place was assholes and he was actually in a position where he could use his new status to get away from all of them. Sometimes he could be seen surrounded by the Lieutenants – who were obviously also assholes. Not that Simmons had really talked to them yet but Owen said they were useless assholes that had unfairly been chosen for the title.

And he had to be right about that. Simmons knew the Red Army Handbook from memory. He seriously doubted that Adamm or Snell could do that.

It was hard to understand why Owen had not reached the title of Lieutenant yet. Not only did the guy have the Red Army Handbook in hardback – he was even in possession of the rare special edition that included three extra chapters!

Simmons shook his head to pull himself out his thoughts.

Point still was that whenever Grif was not being pestered by the Lieutenants, he would withdraw to his quarters. And stay there. Even after he was supposed to be somewhere else.

Honestly, it was not Simmons’ problem if Grif overslept. Simmons could care less. It was not his ass on the line.

But it seemed like Blood Gulch had given him traumas too deep to recover from. He had been stuck with the duty of waking up Grif for so long that it had just become a daily part of his routine.

While Owen would go in daily morning run, Simmons would tell him he needed to recalibrate his cyborg limbs and the other private would have no problem with leaving him alone. Then Simmons would sneak off and the same routine would happen:

Simmons would knock on the door, Grif would ignore it, Simmons would knock again and Grif would ignore it, Simmons would step inside and yell at him, Grif would ignore it, and then Simmons would insult him and pull the blanket off him, and Grif would try to ignore it, but they both knew that the chance of Grif falling asleep again was now at least 30 percent smaller. It was not much but when it came to Grif it was something.

Today was no different than it had been the first week.

“Grif, wake the fuck up,” Simmons yelled somewhat quietly while bumping his shoulder against the door. He was not even sure why he continued to knock; he knew Grif was just turning over in his bed right now.

In fact, when Simmons stepped inside he could see that Grif had just pulled up his blanket to cover his head. “Seriously, do we have to go through this every day?” Simmons asked as he marched over.

“Apparently,” Grif muttered. He had turned his head slightly so he was no longer suffocating in his own pillow. “’cause for some reason you won’t leave me alone.”

“Well, someone has to care about your military career,” Simmons muttered as he hovered above him.

“Pretty sure it’s illegal to force a draftee to care about such things.”

Simmons decided to go the next step and pull the pillow out of Grif’s grasp. He did, however, regret it the moment his fingers clasped around it. He should have used his metal hand. The fabric felt _sticky_. Now he was not even sure why he wanted to touch the pillow in the first case.

But now it was too late; Simmons had stolen the pillow and Grif was finally at least half-awake. He was scowling, sending the cyborg an annoyed glance through half-open eyes.

In order to get away from what was surely a nest of bacteria, Simmons threw the pillow so it landed in the corner of the room. “Get the fuck up.”

Grif tsk-ed at him. “Such disrespect.”

“Get the fuck up, _Sergeant_.”

There it was. That stupid version of ‘ _Sergeant’_ that would happen every time it was only the two of them and Grif was staring at him with that stupid smirk. The word would come out stuttered, and Simmons would never be wearing his helmet to hide the way the blood rushed to his cheeks.

The worst thing was how Grif’s smirk would just continue to grow.

“Buuut, Simmons,” he said in a tone dripping with fake wonder, “if I am the Sergeant then I am the one giving orders. That means you can’t bitch at me anymore! Isn’t that just strange?”

Simmons stared at him until he got his expression under control. “It’s plain wrong, that’s what it is.” Now when Grif finally had his eyes open, Simmons decided it was time to retreat. He could ask if… But Grif was still smirking and that meant every conversation would end with Simmons losing.

The cyborg began to walk out of the room. “Training begins at 8.30am, just so you know. Which you should know. Without me telling you.” He sighed at the lack of logic in all of this.

But before he could reach the doorway, however, Grif called out, “So, you one of the cool kids yet?” The smirk was gone now; eyes narrowed as he glanced at the pillow in the corner and his voice sarcastically dry.

Simmons looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“Yeah.  I guess the others must think you are _so cool_ with all that metal. Clearly made the right choice there, buddy.”

It took Simmons some seconds before he realized what he was talking about. The heat returned to his cheeks; different than when he had been flustered but still as uncomfortable. Okay, so he might have said a little white lie but… “What was I supposed to say? I just wanted to give them the simple version.”

“Yeah,” Grif said and sat up a bit so he could stare right back at him. “And what is the simple version, Simmons?”

Simmons thought about that question for a while. Then a little longer. His cheeks seemed to burn stronger as he thought about it, and finally he came to the conclusion that if Grif wanted to ask stupid questions about the stupid tank-accidents and its stupid consequences then he should have asked them a long time ago, and not now when the timing was bad and Simmons could not find an answer.

Apparently Simmons thought it about it for too long and Grif, as lazy as always, gave up waiting for an answer. He laid back down on the bed despite the lack of pillow. “Whatever.”

Simmons could agree on that. If Grif was fairing so well that his biggest problem was Simmons’ vague explanation of his cyborg parts then Simmons could care less. So yeah – _whatever_.

It was Simmons who had the biggest problems to care about. Not only did he have to supervise Grif to make sure he did not make a complete mess of himself, he also had to try to make a name for himself here. Which was harder than expected since Grif was yet to help him.

And this place was filled with assholes just looking for the chance to tear him down. Owen had been kind enough to point out which people to avoid. Thank god for that – Simmons had been about to share table with Nielsen. That was like social suicide. And Simmons had died enough times during high school, so there was no way he was going through that again.

“Fine,” Simmons huffed. “Can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with for today’s program. I’m sure it will be something brilliant.” He let out a final snort and was about to leave when Grif called out again.

“You know what? I’m sure it will be.” The smirk was back in his voice again which was… progression? Maybe? “Today is your big day, Private Simmons. I am giving you the chance you’ve been waiting for. I am letting _you_ run today’s drills. Yeah. You can start thanking me now, by the way.”

“You- you can’t do that!”

“Of course I can. I’m the Sergeant.  And you wanted the chance the prove yourself. So here’s that fucking chance – be grateful!”

Simmons dropped his jaw. “But you’re just making me do your duties!”

“I know! Just like back in Blood Gulch! Brings up some feelings, huh. Such good memories of that place.”

Turning around in the doorway, Simmons glanced at the bed where Grif was still huddled together. “Oh fuck you.”

“What was that?”

“Fuck you, _sir_!”

Simmons’ cheek did not burn this time. They remained ice-cold even as he slammed the door close behind him.

He kept muttering to himself on the way back to his room. While this technically served as a great opportunity, it still meant that Simmons had to come up with a presentation within the hour. But at least he did not have that presentation angst he had suffered from during High School – that had of course been phase. A stupid phase. He was waaay over that.

Besides, they were all men here. It would have been completely different if there were any women.

He just… needed to do like Sarge. Sarge had led a team filled with assholes before. And Simmons had been watching Sarge for years.

He had actually been thinking of sending Sarge a letter. It was normal to let one’s former superior know of your current progress in life. Sarge would probably love to know that he and Grif were still doing their best in the fight against the Blues. Well, Simmons was doing his best. And Grif was still slacking off. None of that really counted as news.

But he was sure Sarge would appreciate the letter no matter what. It had to be lonely back in Blood Gulch. Being stuck in a canyon with a girl as your enemy. What a nightmare.

Still… Maybe Sarge had been right to stay behind in Blood Gulch.

* * *

“Okay, I am sure you’re all wondering what I am doing,” Simmons said after the others had finally gathered around him and he had cleared his throat three times.

“Yeah!” one of them yelled. Simmons recognized the yellow trims – of course it had to be _fucking Nielsen_ who interrupted him. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“That is a good question,” Simmons said automatically but then he realized just who he was talking with. “No, wait, actually that’s a fucking stupid question, Nielsen. For fuck’s sake man, get yourself together.” Clearing his throat again, Simmons announced, “So, Sergeant Grif is feeling… sick today, so he ordered me to take care of today’s morning drills.”

There was a second where everyone seemed to process this.

“…Is he poisoned?” one of them finally asked.

“Wha- _No_! Why would you ask that?!” Simmons shrieked, rather horrified of the idea that the others believed he would actually kill their Sergeant. Even if that Sergeant was Grif.

“’cause our last Sergeant was poisoned?” another soldier said casually. “Is he puking up purple stuff?”

“Not purple,” someone else corrected him. “More like mauve.”

Well, that was a grim detail Owen had never bothered to inform him of. Simmons grimaced behind his visor. “Okay. No. No, he is not doing that. He is not poisoned and not dying.”

“Then why are you here?” Kohl asked.

“ _Because_ Sergeant Grif is not feeling well and he asked me to take over.”

Owen tilted his head. Simmons had left their quarters before he had returned from the run, so it was natural that this came as a surprise. “You?”

At least his voice did not sound accusing or anything. Just curious. A bit disbelieving, maybe, but this was surely a surprise to everyone.

“Why?” Kohl asked again, and then all the soldiers were staring back at Simmons.

He took in a deep breath. “Because we are using a drill we went through back in Blood Gulch and since I was stationed with Grif, I know how it works.”

“…Can’t we just get a day off?” Nielsen suggested. “I mean, if we don’t even get a day off when the Sergeant is sick, when do we ever get a day off?”

“You’re soldiers! You don’t get a day off!”

“Wow.” They all turned around to see Grif slowly entering the scene with his rifle in his hand. “Really sounding like a Sergeant there, Simmons. Good job.”

Kohl jumped a bit. “Sergeant Grif! You’re not dead!”

“…Was I supposed to be dead?”

He glanced at Simmons who shook his head and clutched his gun tighter. “I- I didn’t-“

“Yeah, such a _good job_ ,” Grif snorted and walked over to him to take his place. Simmons backed away until he was standing next to Owen whose visor was focused on their Sergeant. “Okay, everybody,” Grif began with a surprisingly stern tone of authority in his voice. It caused Simmons to straighten out his back. “From what I hear, you guys have a dead late Sergeant, ten fully functional jeeps and a circuit track. So there is only one thing we can do with that.”

“Get the fuck out of here?” Simmons suggested, and immediately wanted to bite off his own tongue.

Grif’s head turned sharply to stare at him. “Is that cowardice I hear, Private Simmons?”

“ _No_! I just- just assumed that since you- I thought- _Never mind_. Sorry, sir.”

“Good. ‘cause it’s time to take a manner of action, men. So tell me-“ Grif had placed his rifle on his back to cross his arms in a smug manner. There was a weird tone of excitement in his voice as he asked, “how many of you can drive a jeep?”

All the soldiers raised a hand the moment he asked, and a second later Simmons reluctantly did the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this was a filler chapter. Not denying that fact. But I had to add these parts. Action will come in the next chapter.
> 
> Loving s15 so far. There is so much Grif angst and I love it.
> 
> I hoped you enjoyed this chapter. I am heading into a very stressful part of my exam period now; maybe update schedule will be the same, maybe it will be slow as fuck. We’ll see.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. I think I've Gone Blind With Very Real Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, uhm, you think the Blues are going to shoot at us?”
> 
> Owen let out a loud laughter. “What else should they do?”
> 
> “I… don’t know. Stand around and talk?”
> 
> Stepping on the gas, Owen let out a whistle. “Wow, Blood Gulch sounds boring.”
> 
> “…not really,” Simmons muttered, voice too low to be heard.

“Wait, you can’t do that.” Simmons hurried after Grif who was marching towards the motor pool in a speed that was unlike the orange soldier. The cyborg struggled to keep up.

Grif shrugged. “I’m a Sergeant, I can do whatever I want.”

“You can’t just misuse your power like that!”

“I did not hear you tell Sarge that back in Blood Gulch,” the Sergeant muttered with hunched shoulders. He dropped into the driver’s seat of the nearest Mongoose with enough force to make it shake.

Simmons raised an eyebrow behind his visor. He had expected Grif to go straight for a Warthog as usually. But Grif had explained his plan and it was not truly an attack on Blue Base, but more like a race. It made sense that he would ditch the machine gun and go for speed instead. Besides the Mongoose still had room for one more passenger…

But he decided to wait, looking down at Grif with crossed arms. “Well, Sarge never came up with something this mad.” Simmons hesitated, searching for the right words, and then admitted, “I don’t _understand_ why this is necessary.”

“It’s a display of power, of course.” No one had heard Owen walk over to them but suddenly he was there, standing behind Simmons, greeting Grif with a nod. Simmons briefly wondered if Owen used to do stealth missions – he was always so quiet when he arrived. It made Simmons jumpy.

Grif looked at Owen for some seconds, then at the maroon soldier next to him. “See, Simmons? He gets it.”

Simmons closed his mouth with enough force to make his teeth clank against each other.

Owen had straightened out his back in pride but sensing this was the end of the conversation he quickly saluted Grif and marched away towards a Warthog in the other end of the hall. The other Reds had begun to appear as well, claiming vehicles for the mission.

Making sure no one else could hear them, Simmons leaned down to hiss, “You’re going to get us all killed.”

Grif shrugged. “This isn’t their first time behind a wheel.” And that seemed true enough, at least according to the excitement the soldiers had shown when they had heard the details of the mission. Grif turned his head so he was staring straight ahead. “More worried about you. Your driving skills suck.”

“…You really think that, sir?” Simmons asked by instinct, voice thin.

Grif let out a choked noise. “Simmons, the last time I let you drive, Donut outpaced us. And he was on foot.”

“There’s nothing wrong with following safety guidelines,” the cyborg reminded him. He then turned his head, watching the passenger seat of the Mongoose. He took a step towards it. “But I was going to let you drive anyway. You know, like we used to.”

Grif leaned forward in his seat, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “Sergeant drives alone.”

Simmons froze. He quickly did a mental scan of the Red Team Handbook to see if there was any such a rule. He came to the conclusion that it did not exist. Which meant that Grif did not want him along. Grif was angry. Simmons blinked.

Finding his voice, he finally asked, “Why the fuck are you pissed?” When Grif did not answer, Simmons continued with an offended huff, “I should be the one feeling pissed. You’re about to get me killed after all.”

Grif finally turned his helmet to look at him. “Go ask the cool kids if you can ride with them.”

Simmons dropped his jaw once again – its hinges were beginning to hurt at this point – but before he could say anything, Grif stepped on the gas and the Mongoose lunged forward with such a speed that it almost ran over Simmons’ foot.

For a moment he just stood there, blinking, but then Simmons realized how awkward he looked, standing alone in the middle of the hall. He turned his head rapidly, trying to find a ride he could join. The person closest to him was Nielsen with a beat-up Mongoose which probably meant all the other vehicles were taken. And Simmons was not going to ride with Nielsen – he had that much dignity, at least, even though it seemed like Grif was trying to strip it away from him.

So he scanned the room until he found the person he was looking for, and then he raced towards Owen who had claimed a Warthog nearby. Simmons halted next to it, rubbing the back of his neck as he asked breathlessly, “So, uhm, can I drive with you?”

“Sure,” Owen replied immediately, and Simmons could exhale in relief. “As long as you don’t fight about who gets the wheel.”

“I prefer to be in the back anyway.” Simmons jumped into the vehicle to place himself behind the machine gun. The position felt oddly familiar and comforting. “I’m used to it. I’m never the first one to yell ‘ _shotgun_ ’.” He laughed weakly at the memory but the sound seemed to die before it even left his lips.

Owen looked over his shoulder to stare at him, helmet tilted. “’ _Shotgun’_?” he asked, voice filled with confusion and curiosity.

“It’s, uhm, it was a sorta private joke,” Simmons said with reddened cheeks behind the visor. “Sorry.” He coughed, as if that could force away the awkwardness. “But you can definitely be the driver. I suck at driving.”

“You do?” There was a frown in Owen’s voice as he asked, “Then why are you here?”

Simmons, taken back by the question, began to stutter, “I-I was relocated.”

“Oh.” Owen paused, as if thinking about that. “Yes. Of course.”

When the other Private did not ask further about that subject, Simmons allowed himself to relax a bit. Misunderstandings happened. This was probably one of those.

“We better get going,” Owen said. “I don’t want to be too far away from the Sergeant. Would not want to miss out on all the action.”

“No, that would be a disaster,” Simmons muttered dryly. “So, uhm, you think the Blues are going to shoot at us?”

Owen let out a loud laughter. “What else should they do?”

“I… don’t know. Stand around and talk?”

Stepping on the gas, Owen let out a whistle. “Wow, Blood Gulch sounds boring.”

“…not really,” Simmons muttered, voice too low to be heard.

* * *

The plan was a disaster. Technically it had never been much of a plan to begin with. Grif had decided it was time to scare the Blues so they were going to drive into their base, cause some chaos by, well, improvising.

Their plan was to improvise.

Simmons was 60 percent sure he was going to die today.

But at least the Reds seemed confident. They actually looked happy about being given the chance to drive. Owen looked extremely satisfied in the driver’s seat.

Most of their vehicles were Mongooses, but a few of them had brought a Warthog. Simmons figured the machine gun would be doing the improvising part.

“You, uh, ready for this?” he asked and glanced at Owen.

“Yep.” He did not sound nervous at all. “But I advise you to keep a tight grip on that gun.”

Simmons barely had the time to gulp before Grif yelled out something that was supposed to be an order and then the race began.

Grif remained in the lead with some other Mongooses close to him. Not that Owen was not driving fast enough – in fact, the ground beneath moved quickly enough to make Simmons close his eyes, swallowing the growing nausea.

The Reds had obviously not been taught how to keep a safe distance between moving vehicles, and Mongooses raced past them only an inch away.

Less than a minute into the so-called mission, Simmons was clinging onto the machine gun as if his life depended on it.

One minute more, after Owen had driven off some kind of ramp and all four wheels had left the ground and they were fucking flying for some seconds (and then the wheels landed safely on the ground again, not even swaying out of line, and Owen did not even flinch once, but those were all minor details), Simmons closed his eyes in fear.

He only dared to open them again when Owen yelled, “ _Simmons_!”

When Simmons looked around he first of all noticed the color blue, everywhere, moving around quickly. He then realized they were in the middle of Blue territory, and when his mind registered that realization he immediately began to shoot.

Two Blues had to jump behind cover and a third was run over by an incoming Mongoose.

The Reds definitely knew how to create chaos.

“Nice job!” Owen yelled back at him, and then spun around so they had another chance of hitting some Blues.

It continued like this for a while; red and blue colors mixing, quickly racing from one side of the area to another, the Reds attempting to run the Blues down, while the Blues were shooting at them with whatever weapon they had managed to grab.

Simmons would fire at the Blues until they would find some solid cover behind a ramp or wall, and then he would turn his weapon and destroy supplies instead.

The plan actually seemed to be going well.

Until Simmons ran out of bullets.

Suddenly it just was not firing, no matter how hard he pulled the trigger. Simmons froze when he realized this. The Blues began to move as they realized this.

Seeing the Blues peeking from their cover, understanding now was their chance, almost made his stable cyborg heart skip a beat. The Warthog was not moving, and he was basically a sitting duck in this position. “Owen?” he whined, not daring to take his eyes off the Blues who had begun to raise their weapons.

He could hear Owen swearing but the jeep remained still.

One Blue was standing up now, aiming at Simmons’ head, and the cyborg briefly wondered if the universe would spare him and let Grif or any other Red appear and run the guy over.

But no Red came to save him.

Still, Simmons could not complain, since the Blue suddenly fell over, bullet hole in his back.

“Sorry! Not my fault! My bullet was already flying when you stepped in front of it!”

Simmons blinked, seeing a somewhat familiar shade of Blue in the distance. “…Caboose?”

Then he almost lost his grip on the machine gun when the Warthog suddenly came back to life, reversing some meters until Owen could force the vehicle to the left, clearing them a way out of here.

“Sorry,” Owen called over his shoulder, “it stalled!”

Several Mongooses suddenly drove past them, away from the Blue Base and back towards Red territory, and Simmons realized the job was done and they were retreating. Owen followed the others and soon they were out of the Blues’ range.

Simmons allowed himself to breathe in deeply.

“That went well!” Owen yelled.

“Yeah,” Simmons replied, and first then he realized that the other Private had not been sarcastic.

On their way back they outpaced Kohl who was alone on a Mongoose. Simmons gulped when he noticed how the armor covering his shoulder was more red than it should be.

Owen slowed down so they were driving beside him. “That looks bad,” he said loud enough for the other Red to hear it.

“It’s fine,” Kohl sneered back, his voice pained.

“Good,” Owen said shortly. “You were already useless enough before becoming incapacitated.”

Then he stepped on the gas again, leaving Kohl behind.

“You are good with that machine gun, Simmons,” Owen told him as they joined the others at the Red Team’s motor pool. “Bet you killed a lot of Blues back in Blood Gulch.”

* * *

An hour later when the injured had been sent to the appointed medic, and the enthusiasm had had somewhat calmed down (these guys had managed to yell “Red Team! Red Team!” even ten minutes after Grif had declared their victory), Simmons managed to track down Grif in an empty hallway.

The orange soldier froze slightly when he saw Simmons approaching but did not attempt to move away from him faster.

The anger was still burning inside the maroon soldier, causing him to sound rather breathless.

Simmons was not too sure if Grif was too stupid to see what he had just put them all through or if he just did not care. “You’re… I can’t believe it but this mission was more crazy than the ones Sarge would send us on. _We could all have died!_ ”

“But we didn’t,” Grif said with a shrug, like he had not been the one to bitch as Sarge whenever the Red Team’s leader had wanted to use him as a human shield.

Simmons gaped at him. “Oh my god, you’ve lost your mind.”

They were alone in the hallway now; Grif even turned his head to see if they were going to be disturbed. When realizing no one would intrude in this part of the base, he tore of his helmet with an angry motion. “Wow. Just because you don’t know how to have fun doesn’t mean you can go around offending people like that.”

While Grif lit a cigarette, Simmons searched for the joking tone in his voice. He really looked for it.

“I’m not sure Kohl had fun,” he then told him dryly. “Or any of the other guys that have to dig out bullets from their armor – if they’re lucky enough that stopped it.”

“Hey, there were no casualties today.” Grif waved his cigarette towards him as he reminded the cyborg of the fact. “So I did better than the las guy.”

“For now,” Simmons muttered darkly. “Sergeant Patzer was poisoned. Maybe you shouldn’t go pissing off the Blues.”

“I could not do nothing.”

“Yes, you could! You love doing nothing!” Simmons threw up his hands to illustrate his frustrations.

Grif snorted. “Duh. Of course. Doing nothing is the best. But you haven’t been pestered with these guys bitching about how loooong it had been since the last attack on the Blues. Pretty sure they were convinced the Blues had managed to build a freaking atom bomb with all the spare time. So, yeah, it was time to do _something_. With all the jeeps hanging around I figured it would be fun.”

His eyes darted away from Simmons’ face to look at his cigarette instead, as if it was that interesting.

Which it was not. Cigarettes were dangerous and unhealthy, and Simmons had warned him of that before. Those were his own lungs he was protecting, and Grif never seemed to care. In fact, now when Simmons thought about it, then Grif’s smoking habits had grown worse since they arrived in Rat’s Nest. Probably since the Sergeant could do whatever he wanted.

In fact Grif’s entire behavior had just seemed to change so I would naturally piss off Simmons. And it worked.

Tired of the smell of smoke, Simmons snatched the cigarette out of his hand. Grif let out a short sound of protest, but Simmons cut him off, “No smoking.” He dropped it on the ground, ruined it with the bottom of his boot.

“I lifted that ban. ‘cause I can.” He almost sounded proud of the fact.

“Well, I don’t care, _Sergeant_.” The word came out fine this time; bitter and stern and mockingly. “Those are _my_ lungs! I won’t allow you to-“

“ _’Allow me’_?!” Grif repeated in a hiss. “You seem to be forgetting that I’m _your_ Sergeant!”

“You’re not a real Sergeant,” Simmons huffed back. “I mean, it has to be a mistake.”

“ _’Has to be_ ’?”

Simmons was pacing back and forth at this point, changing between gripping his helmet in frustration and letting his arms fall to his side where he would clench his hands into fists. “It should have been _me_. I read the Red Army Handbook, I _memorized_ it, I have the best test scores, I actually listened to Sarge, I was the one who actually tried to act like a respectable soldier. And you’re _you_.”

“Wow,” Grif said dryly, after taking in the insult. “I hope you’re still not counting on that promotion from me.”

Simmons finally halted his pacing to look at him. “I just don’t _know_ why they would choose _you_.”

“I know,” Grif replied immediately. His tone sounded bored, almost casual.

“You do?” He snorted in disbelief. “Don’t tell me it’s because of your looks again. We both know you’re a joke of a Sergeant.”

Two seconds passed before Grif decided to answer that. When he did his voice was surprisingly calm, “Do you know what I know, Simmons? Rat’s Nest specializes in vehicles. So when Sarge didn’t want to go they picked the best driver.”

Simmons blinked. Swallowed. Spent a second or two thinking about that explanation. Then he found his voice again, “But that doesn’t-“

“Sure,” Grif snorted sharply, cutting him off. His eyes were narrowed. “It isn’t like I’m always the one to drive. And I’m the only one who knows how to drive fast. And I can actually flip a jeep without breaking it. And I actually know how to outmanoeuvre someone in a car chase.  You’re right, all of this makes absolutely no sense.”

The anger seemed to have left Simmons body, simply seeping out between armor cracks, leaving him cold and stuttering weakly, “I just assumed-“

Grif never gave him the chance to finish his sentence. “You know what, Simmons? The shithole is filled with people who just assume stuff about me.” He paused, shoulder dropping. Turning his head so he was staring at the wall rather than Simmons, he said with a low voice, “I kinda hoped you were the one guy not to do it.”

Then he put on his helmet and walked away.

When Simmons was finally able to move again, he swallowed in order to soothe his suddenly hurting throat, and then he walked down the hallway in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, half of the time I am writing this fic I feel like I am writing a high school au.
> 
> So during my research for this story I discovered this; Rat’s Nest specialized in vehicles. Which is why they have a big motor pool and circuit track. The Freelancers would go there to practice their driving skills.
> 
> So, yeah, I think that is the reason Grif was chosen to be a Sergeant.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your support! It means a lot!


	5. I Didn't Say Weird Bad, I Just Said Weird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stag?” The outcast of the group spat out the word with so much distaste that for a moment even Simmons could hear how ridiculous that name was. “You’re seriously going to call it a Stag?”
> 
> “Oh, I can’t wait to hear your suggestion, Nielsen.”
> 
> His hands had become clenched by Snell’s comment but now Nielsen straightened out his back and said sternly, “I think it looks like a stallion.”

Simmons looked at the old photograph and wondered if it was weird to send your old CO letters. But not hearing from Sarge for so long was rather unnerving. And while he had his set of calligraphy out he could just as well write a letter to Donut too.

Just to say hi. And a quick update. To let them hear that Grif was a walking catastrophe would not exactly count as news but he was sure Sarge would at least appreciate the reminder.

He’d be happy to hear that Simmons was making process, too. Okay, maybe that promotion would not come in the nearest future. Especially not after the argument… But Simmons had made good contacts and Owen was surely helping him on the right path.

Even though the photograph had been lying inside the drawer it had managed to gather a small layer of dust anyway. Simmons frowned and ran his finger of the glass to wipe it off. He stopped when his thumb was on top of Grif’s face.

The cyborg sighed heavily and removed his thumb. Even though Grif looked uncomfortable in the picture his expression was still happier than how he would look in Rat’s Nest.

But it had been a while since Simmons had seen Grif’s face. They had not really talked since, well… And whenever Grif actually did show up he was always in armor. But he was staying inside his private quarters most of the time. They had created a simple morning training routine and Grif did apparently not see the use of showing up to support his men – instead he just handed the Lieutenants all the hard work.

The door to their room was opened, and Simmons held back a squeak before shoving the picture frame back between two shirts and then slamming the drawer close.

“Hello,” Owen said and stepped inside the room. “This place is a mess.” He sighed and sat down on the lower bunk, taking off his helmet and placing it next to him. “Red Base gets one delivery and immediately everyone turns into kindergarten kids, fighting to get the new toy.”

“Wait, we got a delivery?”  Simmons frowned – this was news. Well, of course he had not received any inside information from Grif for a while but this felt like something he should have been aware of. Did everybody but Simmons know about the delivery? Was this a sign that he should leave his quarters more often? “What is it?”

“I haven’t seen it up close yet but I am sure Sergeant Grif is going to love it. Which is why I am keeping my distance – those idiots are going to scratch it and I will not be a part of that idiocy. I know better.”

“Huh.” Simmons hesitated for a moment but then the curiosity won. “But do you – do you know what it is?”

Owen let out a laughter that was clear and loud. Then it stopped abruptly and he looked up at the cyborg. “Oh. I do.”

“…okay? Why aren’t you telling me about it then?”

“Simmons, you have been moping in here for a week.” Owen tilted his head, giving him a stare full of pity. “I know homesickness sucks but you really aren’t helping yourself, buddy. Step outside, get some fresh air, see the sight for yourself. I mean it. You’ve been gone for so long that the others have begun to think I murdered you or something.” He laughed again at the thought.

“I show up for the training.” Simmons defended himself. He was not a slacker. And he was not moping. Rat’s Nest was just so boring he might as well spend it inside his quarters. And if he sometimes fell asleep then it did not count as lazy napping – it was just because his mind was restless during night which kept him awake.

Owen stood up to nudge his shoulder. “Yes, but you never say a word. You could just as well be a robot. Red Team does not need a robot.”

Simmons felt like he should say something about that but he could not remember if he had ever mentioned Lopez and maybe a team robot was in fact weird.

“What was even that great about Blood Gulch? Didn’t you say the place sucked?” Owen was leaning against the wall, frowning. “I thought you hated Grif. I mean, that’s the thing with superiors. You secretly want them dead so badly but you just have to suck it up and do what it takes, right?”

“I, uh…” Simmons considered his words. True, his relationship with Grif had never been perfect. And it was certainly strained right now. But that was Grif’s fault. Okay, so maybe Simmons had been a little harsh on him, but Grif could have just told him. So this whole argument was basically caused by Grif being an asshole and not telling Simmons such important facts. “Grif is a pain in the ass.”

“And so a promotion requires creative thinking when it comes to the compliments. But I like to see it as a personal challenge. There’s always something good to be pointed out in a person, Simmons. Or, if not, then you just have to lie.” Owen finished with a shrug.

Simmons suddenly felt uncomfortable; the air always seemed stiff in their small shared room. Maybe Owen was right and it was time to face the rest of the world by free will. He put his helmet back on. “I guess… I really want to see what was in that package.”

Owen stepped aside so he had free passage to the door. “Go ahead. If you can push yourself through the crowd. Good luck.”

* * *

Before stepping out of their quarters, Simmons returned the smile and wondered if this was going to be anything like the last time the Reds got a delivery. 

Owen had been right about the crowd. A mass of red shielded the delivery from Simmons’ sight. He slowly came closer, now wanting to draw enough attention to himself to halt the ongoing conversation. He recognized some of the trims; Adamms, Snell and Nielsen among several other Reds.

“If this thing improves our efficacy that much does it mean we can finally get a vacation?” It was obvious that the question belonged to Nielsen – not just by the nature of the request, but also by the bored voice that always managed to annoy Simmons and the others.

“Sure thing, Nielsen. I am sure they’ll give you a paid visit to Hawaii. They’ll welcome you with a pink drink and a flower crown!”

The reply came immediately from the too lazy Private, “I know how sarcasm works, Adamms.”

For a moment Simmons just dropped his jaws at the familiar scene. He considered whether to feel shock but could deja-vu be described as surprising? It was weird, if anything.

“It’s actually not a flower crown,” another soldier cut in with his hands on his hips. “It’s a necklace, and they are called leis.”

“No one asked you, Snell.” Nielsen had pulled his shoulder upwards into a defensive stance. “Can we talk about the motorcycle again?”

That just earned him a snort. “Sure, let’s talk about vehicles instead of flowers. That says so much about how strong your manhood is, Nielsen.” The rest of the crowd laughed mockingly, and Simmons finally managed to squeeze himself between two sets of shoulders and got close enough to see the sight for himself.

At least it was not a Warthog. There were already enough weird coincidences, and Simmons was nearly choking on nervous chuckles. If Grif would have seen this… He’d definitely have made a comment, but Simmons did not really want to hear any comments from the Sergeant right now.

It was still a vehicle which did not make the situation any less weird.

It was a motorcycle, a brand new one at that, and it was painted in a bright red color.

“You’re the one talking about fucking flowers,” Nielsen hissed back. Everyone had made sure to keep at least two steps distance from him, occasionally sending him looks of distaste through their visors, but he had made sure to force his way forward so he was close to the motorcycle. “I’m the one who wants to first ride on this beauty.”

Adamms puffed out his chest. “Well, you’re not going to, Nielsen.” His voice was calm but had a snort in the end. “Even if Privates were allowed a ride, you would be the last in line. Hell, I’d let a Blue ride it before you could get your dirty hands on it. But Sergeant Grif is the rightful owner of the first ride on the Stag.”

“ _Stag_?” The outcast of the group spat out the word with so much distaste that for a moment even Simmons could hear how ridiculous that name was. “You’re seriously going to call it a Stag?”

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear your suggestion, Nielsen.”

His hands had become clenched by Snell’s comment but now Nielsen straightened out his back and said sternly, “I think it looks like a stallion.”

The silence was almost deafening as the crowd considered the new name.

It did not last long, however, since Adamms asked loudly. “What. The fuck. Is a stallion?”

All eyes were set on Nielsen who shrugged, “You know. A horse. But with a penis. A big one.”   

Simmons felt his own face turn hot and he was very grateful for his helmet. Someone in the crowd snickered, and Adamms outright laughed. “You’re retarded, Nielsen.”

The private briefly looked at the quiet Simmons but then he faced the Lieutenant again, not backing down. “You’re the one who doesn’t know what a stallion is.”

“Would you stop talking about imaginary giant horses?”

“It’s not the horse that is big. It's the dong.”

This time Simmons could not help but slam a palm against his visor. His cheeks were burning. But the others seemed to agree with his reaction; they all snorted angrily at Nielsen’s comment and hushed insults were thrown through the air.

Simmons was not sure if he was dying because of Nielsen’s explanation or just the sheer irony of the situation.

“…I’m embarrassed to call you a Red.” Snell said and gave Nielsen a shove so he stumbled away from the motorcycle.

Adamms pointed at vehicle that was still standing untouched in the middle of the crowd. It was so polished it still shined. “The handles look like antlers. Therefor; _Stag_.” the Lieutenant declared firmly.

“Or a moose?” Nielsen dared to say. “Or like a horned ox?”

“Nielsen, just shut the fuck up. We all know how stupid you are, you don’t need to prove it by speaking nonsense.”

“But…” Before he could stop himself Simmons took a step forward so he was standing in the middle of the crowd, next to Nielsen who looked up in surprise. The cyborg wrung his hands but continued to speak. “They, uhm, I mean, moose and oxen do exist. So he is, technically, not wrong.”

Adamms snorted loudly and crossed his arms. “I know they exist. I’m not stupid. But that thing is still a Stag.”

“C’mon, Simmons,” Snell nudged his shoulder. “You can’t seriously be agreeing with _Nielsen_.” He spat out the name.

And suddenly everyone was staring at Simmons who was trying not to flinch under the attention.

“I…” He tried to swallow but his mouth felt to dry. His metal hand was gripping the other so tightly it turned numb. Simmons turned his head to look at Nielsen whose form was slumped over – until he noticed he was staring and he stubbornly straightened out his back.

And Simmons realized perhaps the obvious irony was meant to teach him a lesson. “Oh my god.” he breathed out, oblivious to the Reds surrounding him.

* * *

“I am so honored to be your personal assistant!” Kohl said once again, and Grif honestly regretted his choice. Whatever pity the sight of the bandaged shoulder might have granted the Private in the beginning had now been replaced with annoyance.

Grif nodded sadly. “Almost can’t believe it myself.” But he needed someone to bring him his daily rations, and that Owen guy was just a bit too pushy about it. When Kohl had been given some days off due to his injury, the choice had been easier to make.

And he had actually done a great job; bringing Grif his dinner so the Sergeant did not even have to leave his quarters. Too bad Kohl could not take any hints and had settled inside the room as well, as if they were having dinner together, and now he was gushing about his feelings.

“I know I still have to wear the bandage and all but I just want to tell you that no matter what then I, James Kohl, will always stand ready to serve.” he informed him and immediately salute.

Grif nodded, staring hungrily at the tray in front of him. Too bad he could not take off his helmet until the other soldier left. When Kohl kept staring at him, expecting some kind of response, he forced the Sergeant to speak.“Uh, great.”

Even though Kohl had his own tray of dinner in front of him he barely seemed to be noticing the food. His visor was all set on Grif. “This is such a big moment for me.”

Grif barely dared to ask but the curiosity won. “…Why?”

“Well, becoming your personal assistant. That is big.” His helmet was tilted upwards, looking for confirmation from his superior. “That _is_ big, right?”

Grif felt like running a hand down his face but the helmet was in the way. “Okay, look, seriously, who gives a shit if you pick up my lasagna?” The moment the question left his mouth he froze and reconsidered. “Well, except for me because I want it warm and with extra cheese.”

“It’s better than _not_ being your assistant,” Kohl continued rather persistent. “It puts me above the other Privates. Makes me… important.”

That dreamy tone almost caused Grif to groan out loud. It made him think of nerds and kissasses and the constant talk of promotion like that was the purpose of life. “So why is being important worth that much effort?”

“Why, you’re- You’re a Sergeant!” Kohl laughed nervously, like the way Simmons had done when he thought Sarge had been making a joke when the Red Leader had obviously been dead serious about that crazy ass order.  The injured Private waved Grif off. “You get it. But for me… I mean, I _have_ to.” His voice turned somber and he let out a heavy breath. Apparently forgetting that this was his Sergeant’s quarters and not a psychiatrist’s room he began his story. “It guess it began when I was four and-“

And thus began to longest sob-story Grif had ever heard. And he was kind of an expert when it came to sad backstories; his own sad past had begun with his mother abandoning him and had ended with the draft, with all sort of unfair bullshit in-between.

But Kohl’s story had it all. A family legacy he could not seem to pass on, a disappointed father, a stern mother, a perfect brother, bullies terrorizing him at high school, a beautiful cheerleader turning him down, a disastrous first day in the military and so on and so on.

The story was long enough for Grif to eat his plate of lasagna as well as the private’s ration – had he been able to eat. He considered taking his helmet off but he’d honestly prefer the terrible story over awkward questions.

Finally Kohl seemed to reach some sort of climax, “But then one day my mother said: _I’m proud of you, Joel_.”

Grif wanted to stop himself but the detail was just bugging him. “…Wasn’t your name James?”

“Yeah, she was talking about my brother.” Kohl let out the biggest, saddest sigh Grif had ever heard since the day Simmons discovered his old calculator from high school had finally stopped working. “He’s a big chief in the Navies right now, back on Earth. Which is why I am working my way up. To give him a bit of competition, you know.”

Grif mentally groaned again. He had planned for a comfortable dinner alone in his room without any bitching, just some Grifball running on the TV in the background. But nope. He had to endure this pathetic Private. “So… shouldn’t you talk with someone about this. As in an expert? And that person not being me?”

“I’m pretty sure it would just traumatize them.” Another sad sigh escaped Kohl’s lips before he raised his head and said with a genuine tone in his voice. “Thank you for listening, sir.”

“Yeah, this has been great.” Grif really hoped the soldier could hear the sarcasm.

But that was not the case. Kohl straightened out his back, looking like Grif had just brightened up his day. “I am glad to hear so, sir! You know, if you never need another Lieutenant, I’m always ready. I’ll be willing to do anything.”

Yeah, that was the thing about kissasses – they were willing to do anything to get that stupid promotion. But, after hearing Kohl’s story it became harder to blame him for trying that hard. Sadly.

Now it was Grif’s turn to sigh. “That’s comforting.” he said sarcastically and wondered if his food had grown cold. What a tragedy.

* * *

 “He was technically right...” Simmons muttered quietly, looking at his bowl of porridge. Leaving his room yesterday had proven to be a disaster. Showing some small mercy towards Nielsen was not a popular move among the rest of the team, and now Owen was the only guy who would sit next to Simmons in the mess hall.

Owen patted his shoulder. “Maybe silence is the right option the next time.”

Simmons had to keep himself from slamming his forehead into his bowl of breakfast.  When he finally straightened out his neck he looked to the other end of the room where Nielsen as always was sitting quietly by himself.

Their eyes met for a moment. Nielsen looked bored as always but his eyes were not narrowed in annoyance this time.

But then something orange entered the hall, and Simmons turned his head in surprise when Grif finally showed himself. He had been eating alone since the argument, probably having some Private fetch his food. He had not asked Simmons which was fine because he did not want to get stuck with that duty anyway. Before the argument Grif and Simmons had eaten together in Grif’s room – this was the first time he had willingly joined the others in the mess hall.

Grif sat down alone but Simmons watched several soldiers twitch as they struggled with the urge to go join him.

Simmons looked down at his food again. Why had he even been staring at Grif in the first place?

But then he overheard a hushed whisper from another table.

“What happened to Sergeant Grif’s face?”

Grif had removed his helmet, shoveling one spoonful of porridge after another into his mouth. For the first time, Simmons realized, he was showing his skin drafts. He did not seem bothered by it, too focused on his food, despite the fact that the whole room was glaring at him now.

Except Owen, who turned his head to watch the metal parts of Simmons’ face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, big thanks to my beta Mio <3
> 
> Sorry for the wait! Red Team Week, angst war and fluff week threw me off schedule but I am back! 
> 
> I hoped you enjoyed, and as always thank you for the support!


	6. My Gut's Made of an Advanced Polymer, It Doesn't Know What the Hell It's Talkin' About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Grif and I-“ Are? Were? Which tense to use? “-got along back in Blood Gulch,” Simmons said firmly, avoiding the word ‘friends’ because that was a weird term after all. “-were on friendly terms back in Blood Gulch. I was just trying to help, making sure he got up in the morning, nothing weird about that, I swear.”
> 
> “I’m not judging you.” Owen held up his hands. “I’m just saying that people are talking. Sergeant Grif did pull you away from the crowd rather often. Well, he did. But what I am saying, Simmons, is that I’m cool with it. I probably have too much dignity to give it a shot, but still. It’s an honorable strategy. And you and I understand the need to sweet-talk a superior at times. We could have discussed the best way to approach. Especially now given the new open spot.”

Simmons had gone to talk to Grif for a reason. He just could not remember what it was.

It had been easy to get distracted since a) Adamms was dead, and b) Owen said Simmons was fucking Grif.

So, uhm, those were probably good subjects to discuss.

The news of the Blues’ ambush had spread quickly through the dining hall. At first the whispers had been shocked, then distraught, and eventually the anger set in. At first it had been directly towards the Blues, naturally, those dirty Blues sneaking up on a patrol like that.

But then came the accusations, revealed to Simmons as he walked past a table while following Owen to their room.

“-Sergeant’s Grif fault. That fucking race must have pissed them off.”

“The Blues could at least have found the courage to attack us head-on like we did.”

Then Simmons was forced to walk away from the conversation, knowing his presence would be unwanted if he actually stopped to listen. Owen was waiting for him by the doorway.

“Well, that was somber,” he said, and it took some seconds before Simmons realized he was talking about the minute of silence they had held in the memory of Adamms.

“I think they are supposed to be,” Simmons replied with a shrug. To be honest, he was not truly mourning. Adamms had been a distant teammate and he had hated Simmons. There were people here Simmons would have been more afraid to lose. Like…

Okay, so Simmons did not have a lot of friends here. Grif did not speak with him. But Nielsen had begun to sound bored instead of angry the few times they had interacted. Not that Simmons would ever say that Nielsen did not deserve a bullet from a Blue since the entire team had agreed on the fact that Nielsen was only useful as a living shield.

Then there was Owen.  He kept Simmons company and he let him trash-talk Grif and he understood the importance of doing well in the military. Yeah, Simmons would probably have been sad had Owen died. Then he would have been all alone in a place that he hated without someone to bitch to.

“Adamms was always an incompetent idiot. It was only a matter of time before something went wrong,” Owen told Simmons the moment they were back in their shared room to prepare for the night. Simmons was sitting on the lower bunk, taking off his boots, and he looked up at his bunkmate and waited for him to continue. “His incompetence was widely known. The only reason he ever got the title was because he flattered his way to the top.” Owen tilted his head. “I suppose you of all people would understand.”

“Wha- why me?” In his surprise, Simmons accidently dropped his gauntlet that landed heavily on the floor. He ignored the urge to pick it up by making sure his eyes are on Owen, awaiting an explanation.

“C’mon, Simmons.” Owen let out a snort, and he felt his stomach drop. “I’m actually kind of hurt that you did not tell me. I’d understood, I mean, it’s all rather understandable. Maybe a bit extreme but still.”

For a moment Simmons wondered if it was his jaw and not his gauntlets that had fallen to the floor. “I… I have no idea what you’re talking about?”

“Simmons,” Owen said and shook his head in amusement. Simmons wondered what kind of joke he had just missed. “Everyone thinks it’s just a _tiny bit strange_ that a part of your face is stuck on Sergeant Grif.”

He kept staring at Simmons, as if he was expecting some sort of explanation. When Simmons tried to find the right words he just ended up as a poor imitation of a dying fish, mouth opening and closing with no real noise leaving it. Eventually he just hung his head.

“I mean, if you ended up like _that_ ,” he gestured towards Simmons’ face, “to look cool I do wonder what Grif’s intentions were.”

“I, uh… There was an accident. And Grif needed some skin drafts.” No need to mention the donated organs. Owen would probably think it was weird that Grif had Simmons’ heart. Was it weird? Probably. Owen shouldn’t  know. “So I-“ Volunteered would probably sound weird as well. “Limited time and limited options, so when our Sergeant decided to give me the cyborg surgery he, uh, well Grif could just as well get my _leftovers_.”

Owen stared. Then he blinked. And blinked again. “Your Sergeant made you a cyborg?”

The question actually caused Simmons to sigh. “It’s not the craziest thing he has ordered.”

Owen let out an amused snort at that comment. Sitting down on the drawer, he folded his hands and awaited more of the story.

Simmons did not know what to tell him. “That’s pretty much it, actually.”

“Well, at least your face still looks cool.” Owen was smiling, eyes watching him carefully. Simmons tried to smile back. “ _B_ _u t_ you could still have told me about your relationship. I could have helped. But, well, of course it is natural to keep me out of it; I am a competitor after all.”

He choked on a mouthful air. “ _What_?”

Owen was still sending him a smile. “You didn’t sleep in the locker that first night. And I know you’ve visited his room every morning. I guess I was just wondering _why_ but, well, I suppose I have connected the dots now.”

“I’m not – _we’re_ not – what the fuck, Owen.” Simmons was aware of how red and warm his cheeks – well, _cheek_ , singularis, since the other was made of metal – had become and how it did not really strengthen his argument. “I hate Grif.”

“Well, that does not really matter, does it? It’s an effective strategy. I just never had the guts for it.”

“We’re not doing what you think we are doing,” Simmons defended himself.

Owen shrugged. “I might be wrong.  No matter that it doesn’t seem to have worked for you.”

“Grif and I-“ _Are? Were?_ Which tense to use? “-got along back in Blood Gulch,” Simmons said firmly, avoiding the word ‘ _friends’_ because that was a weird term after all. “-were on friendly terms back in Blood Gulch. I was just trying to help, making sure he got up in the morning, nothing weird about that, I swear.”

“I’m not judging you.” Owen held up his hands. “I’m just saying that people are talking. Sergeant Grif did pull you away from the crowd rather often. Well, he _did_ . But what _I_ am saying, Simmons, is that I’m cool with it. I probably have too much dignity to give it a shot, but still. It’s an honorable strategy. And you and I understand the need to sweet-talk a superior at times. We could have discussed the best way to approach. Especially now given the new open spot.”

The stuffed air was making Simmons’ brain very slow. He had a hard time processing what Owen had just told him. His mouth was still slightly open as he stared at his bunkmate, and it took him a while before he realized he was talking about the fact that Grif needed a new Lieutenant.

“But I’d understand if you recline the offer of cooperation. There is only one spot, after all. Competition is expected. But you are the only the only person around here who is a true challenge.”

“…Thanks?” Simmons said weakly, and Owen’s smile widened further. “…You too?”

He laughed. “I guess we’ll just have to see how it all turns out. But I wish you luck.”

“Yeah, uhm, same.” Simmons was faintly aware that he had left the bed to stand up. He turned towards the door. “I, uhm, gotta go. See ya.”

“Don’t forget curfew again,” Owen reminded him with a singing, teasing tone to his voice.

Simmons swallowed some spit. “I won’t.” He stumbled into the hallway, head dizzy and nauseous.

He leaned a hand against the wall for a while, taking his time to collect himself before heading in the direction of Grif’s private quarters. His brain has received too much new information to deal with.

Adamms was dead. Had Simmons been on another patrol he might have died too. The others thought he was _seducing_ Grif. Adamms might have had a family. The others thought Simmons was willing to do anything for a promotion. Owen was going to fight for that promotion. The others thought that Simmons and Grif had-

Simmons forgot to knock this time, and stumbled directly into Grif’s room. The Sergeant was in his bed – of course – in his stupid Hawaiian shirt with that stupid clueless look on his face.

“The others think we are fucking.” Simmons let him know before slamming the door shut. He did not want anyone else to hear this. Not that it mattered anyway; apparently everyone new that Simmons would visit Grif in his room.

Grif stared at him. Blinked. And finally he replied, “Good for you, then.”

“This is serious!” He marched over to the bed, ready to tear the blanket out of Grif’s hands so that he could not go to sleep. “They- they _think_ – oh god.”

“And that’s that bad?” Grif did not particularly bothered by this, not even distressed. He just looked at Simmons with a slight glint of amusement in his eyes.

“ _Yes_ !” Okay, that might have been a bit blunt. But Simmons had honestly lost all sense of subtlety since Owen had accused him like that right to his face. “I mean, I would not do _that_.”

“Seriously, Simmons, as if you had never tried to sweet-talk a superior for a promotion before. Remember Sarge? I know you didn’t fuck him but you baked him muffins and that’s pretty much the same.”

“It was a welcome basket!”

“ _You_ were the one joining _his_ team!” Grif argued with his arms crossed. “And you didn’t let me taste.”

That just caused Simmons to snort at the memory. “Well, it didn’t matter. You ate them anyway. All of them.”

“Fuck yeah I did.”

They fell silent after that. Simmons was rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to look at Grif who was still on his bed, only wearing that stupid night shirt, and the sight just felt strange after Owen’s accusations. When he finally lifted his glance from the floor, he asked quietly, “So what do we do?”

Grif shrugged. “’bout what?”

“About the rumors!”

“Pretty sure that they were already talking about you Simmons,” Grif let him know with a roll of his eyes, like that was an obvious fact. “’sides, it’s not my problem ‘cause I don’t give a shit.”

“You should.” Simmons managed to keep his voice from wavering, despite the anger, embarrassment and some other strange feeling that caused his stomach to turn into a knot. “They’re talking about you too. And it’s not nice things. And, they’re – they think you’re the reason for the ambush. That you shouldn’t have sent them out there.”

“Dude, that was Adamms' own idea.” Grif actually looked upset now, a frown on his face and his eyebrows touching. “So don’t go fucking guilt-tripping me.”

“I-“

But Grif cut him off. “I know you love making me your scapegoat but this is some business you don’t know shit about, _Private_ Simmons.”

Low blows then. Simmons tried not to let it show but he could not keep himself from stuttering a bit. “I- I didn’t-“

Grif left the bed which was not a good sign. “If you’re that fucking serious ‘bout a promotion why don’t you try to sweet-talk me? Or can you only do that with every other person than me?”

“Like you’d care anyway,” Simmons gave back because Grif did not give a shit about praise. Grif did not give a shit about anything. Especially not about what Simmons said or felt.

Grif took one step closer to him, and Simmons found himself slowly backing towards the door. “Is it that hard for you to say one nice thing ‘bout me?” Grif snorted in a tone Simmons had never heard from him before.

“You’re not exactly making it easy by being an asshole!”

For a second Grif just seemed to freeze, eyes darting around briefly, before his expression fell neutral again. He sounded very tired and irritated, like the times when Sarge had woken him up at 5am for a training drill. “Go fuck yourself, Simmons. ‘cause I sure ain’t fucking you. Happy now?”

“Yep.”

And with the door slammed shut in front of his face, Simmons tried to remember if he had actually gone to visit Grif to apologize.

* * *

The day after, at lunch time, Simmons was sitting alone at a table while glancing at everyone in suspicion. Who knew what they were talking about. _Who_ they were talking about. They could be talking about Simmons. And Grif. Simmons _and_ Grif.

Owen was gone for some reason. Simmons tried not to think further about it – which was easy because he had all the other soldiers in the hall and their rumors to think about.

He had expected to sit alone during the rest of his meal since Owen was yet to show up, and Nielsen was still sulking in his corner where Simmons was not about to join  him. But that was fine – Simmons could eat alone. He enjoyed the silence. The not so silent silence since the other tables’ low conversation could still be heard as an annoying buzzing in the background.

Simmons chewed harder.

He almost choked when someone shoved his shoulder – not aggressively but not exactly gently either – and that person turned out to be Grif.

“Dude, c’mon,” he said and gestured for him to follow. He seemed oblivious to the fact that everyone in the mess hall was staring at them – a fact that Simmons was very much aware of.

But maybe… Maybe Grif was going to apologize. It would not fix all of Simmons’ problems but at least some of them. At least he would no longer be eating alone.

So Simmons followed Grif out of the mess hall, that a lonely hallway which would surely only create even more rumors if someone saw them. But this was obviously important since Grif had dragged him aside

Grif did not apologize.

Instead he ordered him to prepare the Stag so that he could mount it – and that order just really made Simmons miss Donut for a moment.

For some reason Grif needed to go the spot where Adamms' patrol had been ambushed. No one had volunteered to go with him, practically coming with the most ridiculous excuses to avoid it – Adamms had been the best trained soldier and the Blues had brought him down. No one really trusted going with Grif alone.

“So I figured you should have the honor,” Grif said with a shrug. So far he had not been good at describing the job as an honor.

“So people are shocked that the Blues kill Reds? _After_ we killed Blues?” Simmons tried to find some logic but that seemed to be a rare thing in Rat’s Nest. “Didn’t people tell you to attack them?”

“Yeah, ‘cause they got bored. Nothing serious has happened since the last Sergeant fucked up. And you know the deal –things are more fun when your teammates don’t get shot. But now they are all following the normal procedure which is blaming the superior – unless you are in Blood Gulch where you blame _me_.” He let out an irritated huff but he was not snarling like yesterday.

“Well, to be fair-“

“Stop trying to defend Sarge, he’s not even here to hear your kissassing.” Grif lifted his head to look directly at him. “So, are you going to disobey an order or not, Private Simmons?”

Simmons considered trying to find Owen – surely he would not go against an opportunity like this. But… Grif had not apologized yet but if given time…

So Simmons went to prepare the Stag because Grif was apparently too lazy to do that himself. Not that Simmons was a vehicle expert or had even touched a motorcycle before, but he could at least roll it out and fill it with fuel.

On his way to his garage he met Owen and the sight of his bunkmate caused him to raise an eyebrow behind his visor.

“I know things are tough right now, but don’t tell me you are trying to flee from Red Base?” Owen joked when he realized where Simmons was going.

“Uh, no, I am, _in fact_ , going on a special mission with Sergeant Grif.” He tried to sound proud about it because this was obviously a good thing. He even straightened out his back.

Owen froze. “Oh. _Oh_. Well, congratulations. That’s very well done, Simmons. You must teach me all your tricks at some point.”

He was wearing his helmet but Simmons was sure Owen was smiling on the other side of the visor. Owen was always smiling. “Suuure.” Simmons shifted the weight on his feet, unsure how to tackle the conversation. He did not want Owen mad or jealous – Simmons of all knew how it felt not to be picked. “I’ll see you later.”

Owen waved him goodbye, and Simmons allowed his shoulder to relax while he kept his mind focused on the mission. He refilled the Stag and was very careful not to scratch it as he pushed it to the middle of the room.

“Do you even know how to drive this thing?” he could not help but ask when Grif stepped into the room.

“Of course not!” Grif snorted, and Simmons’ shoulder fell at the sarcastic tone. “They just gave me it ‘cause why the fuck not?”

“I didn’t mean- It’s just that I’ve never seen you riding a motorcycle before…”

Grif let out another huff but said nothing. He placed himself in the seat with an unexpected ease. When Simmons took another step closer, he told him, “What? You don’t want people to think we are fucking but you want to sit behind me?”

Simmons had forgotten just how close they would be sitting, how he would have to hug Grif tightly in order not to fall off the motorcycle, and how uncomfortable he surely would have been with such contact. “Oh…”

“Go find a Mongoose.” Grif ordered and Simmons did what he was told.

* * *

They rode in silence. Simmons was still not too sure of their surroundings since he had only left Red Base once, but Grif seemed sure of where they were going since he suddenly halted the Stag.

Grif jumped off his vehicle while Simmons remained on the Mongoose. Even from there he could see the blood splatter on a nearby rock and surrounding dirt. So this was where the ambush had taken place.

“Why didn’t you bring Owen?” Simmons’ mouth suddenly asked for him.

“What, the welcome basket guy?” Grif asked over his shoulder before shrugging. “Last resort. Guy creeps me out.”

Simmons could not help but feel a tiny bit happy. Which was a wrong feeling, of course – Owen was his friend. And he was not creepy. He was just always smiling. Which was a good thing. “Oh.” Unsure of what to reply to such a statement, he instead changed subject, “So why are we here?”

“Wow.” Grif looked over his shoulder, and for once his voice was back in that normal, teasing way he would use whenever he was in a good mood and wanted to get amused on Simmons’ behalf. “Still asking that same old question?”

Simmons rolled his eyes despite knowing that Grif could not see the gesture. “I mean, why are we out here? In Blue territory? Alone? What are we looking for?”

“Nothing that exists, apparently.” Grif kicked the dust in disappointed. After having walking around the area for a bit, apparently searching for something that was not there, he gave up and walked back to the Stag. “Just assholes being assholes.”

Simmons was about to ask just what the hell that meant when Grif suddenly swore under his breath. “Didn’t I tell you to fill this thing?”

Realizing he was talking about the Stag that was not moving the slightest, Simmons sputtered, “I did!”

“Well, why the hell isn’t it working?!”

Simmons might have tried to answer that question had he not been interrupted by the patrol of Blues that suddenly was upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obvious stuff is very obvious. For a reason.
> 
> Thanks to my beta Mio for the help with this chapter.
> 
> Plot is thickening and assholes are still being assholes. Who would have guessed.


	7. I'm Not Projecting, I'm Just Stating an Observation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I just want to say that firing squad is the coolest option,” he told them. “It’s quicker, more dramatic and you get a last meal.”
> 
> “You got your plan sorted out then,” Simmons snorted.

“We’ve captured the Sergeant!” one of the Blues announced proudly as they arrived at Blue Base. Grif and Simmons were harshly shoved out of the vehicle they had been forced into, a gun pointed at them at all times.

While they had not been handcuffed, the Blues made sure they could not attempt to flee. As Grif was harshly dragged forward by the arm, he turned his head to inform the enemy, “How many times do I have to tell you – I am not the Sergeant!”

“Yeah?” he snorted, disbelief clear in his voice. “Then who is?”

Grif now looked at Simmons who was pulled along to his left. The maroon soldier sent him a warning glance that could be felt through the visor. “Don’t even try.”

“C’mon, now you pass up on that promotion?” Grif just had the time to grunt before they were both brought towards a grey, concrete building that immediately was the cause of ominous vibes that made Simmons gulp.

Another Blue soldier that seemingly had been waiting for them at the entrance of the building quickly looked the two prisoners over with an unimpressed huff before telling the Blues holding them, “Sergeant is still out. Just throw them in the brig until he returns.”

The Blue’s grip loosened the slightest bit on Simmons’ forearm. He looked at his teammate. “Are we sure that is a good idea? I mean, if we want to keep them alive.”

The comment caused Simmons’ stomach to twist. “Uhm, just what are you keeping in your brig?”

“Shut up.”

“C’mon, you were the guys who said I’m worth more alive,” Grif added to the conversation. “Which I agree on, by the way.”

“Just lock them in a different cell. That will have to do.”

“Or if you could let us go,” Simmons suggested quickly as they were dragged down a hallway, trying not to stumble over his own words. “If your prison does not have the capacity it would only be right to-“

“Are Reds always this stupid?” the Blue cut him off and his teammate just shrugged.

“Dude, we’re the newcomers,” Grif let them know with a snort. “You should see the guys that have been living here for years.”

They were thrown into a jail cell with so much force that Simmons felt himself slide inches down the floor. He just hoped he did not get any new scratches on his visor. Grif landed next to him, and before they could sit up, the wall of bars had slid back in place, locking them in.

There was literally nothing inside the cell, just concrete floor and walls, with bars separating them from freedom. Oh, and of course they were stuck in the same cell. Grif looked very offended by the fact and yelled after their captors who were already leaving the building, “Oh, come on, not even a special cell or something?”

“Like you’d need that extra security,” Simmons snorted and ignored that constant thought in his head that went _shit oh shit of fucking shit_.

“Fuck you, I know how to pick locks.”

“No you don’t. You unlocked a door once and that was only because Donut opened it from the other side.”

“Simmons!” Grif was yet to leave the ground and stared up at him in betrayal that could be felt through the visor. “How come you never told me that?!”

After having shaken the bars a couple of times with his cyborg arm just to try, Simmons eventually sat down next to him. “’cause if I had told you would have been kneeling at that door the rest out of the day and not helped me attack the Blues like Sarge told us to do!”

Grif crossed his arms. “Then how do you explain all the times I’ve broken into the storage?”

Simmons stared at him for a couple of seconds, trying to see if he was joking, but then he had to tell him the truth with a flat voice. “…It doesn’t have a lock.”

“Oh.”

“Idiot.”

“I’m blaming you by the way,” Grif let him know in a casual voice, as if they were discussing the weather. Wait, not the weather, Grif never discussed the weather – it was more like if he had brought up the meal of today.

The sudden accusation hit Simmons in the chest. “Wha- why?!”

“’cause you touched the Stag and it broke.”

“You were the one who ordered me to refill it! And I didn’t break it! It was fine. I think.” Simmons tried to remember if the motorcycle had been leaking or anything. He did not recall leaving a trail behind him but he had to admit he had not truly looked for that. And he was not an expert when it came to vehicles. But that did not mean he broke everything he touched. He was not the right person to blame. “Besides, it was your idea to head out here in the first place.”

Grif turned his head to glare at him. “What else was I supposed to do?!”

“I don’t know _‘cause you still haven’t told me why we were there in the first place_ ,” Simmons hissed, feeling that little ball of fire light up inside his chest again because he was angry and this was unfair and Grif was being a jerk and now they had been captured and were probably about to die and-

“Hello.”

“Oh, hi, Caboose,” they both replied in unison before staring at each other again, so they could continue their shouting match.

“You could just have left me at the base if you already knew I would screw up the Stag!” Simmons reminded Grif. “Instead you just dragged me along without even telling me what we were doing! If I had known we were going into enemy territory, I would have taken precautions. But you decided to be all dramatic and mysterious and bring me along even though you hate my guts and what is up what that anyway-“

“You’re the one who ditched me in the first place so why are you even-“

Then they both suddenly froze, the realizing hitting them. They turned their head to stare into the cell next to them. “Caboose?”

“Hello,” the Blue said again, waving eagerly towards them.

Grif and Simmons shared a glance. “…We are in Blue Base, right?” Simmons then asked, just to be sure.

Caboose nodded. “This is my new home, yes.”

“The brig in Blue Base is your new home?” Grif repeated slowly, trying to hide the snort in his voice.

“Yeah, Principal Miller helped me move in. But he forgot to give me the key. And to bring a welcome basket. That was rather rude.” Caboose tilted his head as he looked into their cell. “Aw, you guys didn’t get a basket either. That’s okay. We can share mine. If I had one. Did you bring one?”

Simmons looked at Grif again before answering. “Uhm, no?”

“But now we are neighbors! Just like back in Blood Gulch!” He clasped his hand together and gasped in excitement. “Will you try to shoot me?”

“No? I don’t think so?” Simmons wished his answers would stop sounding as unsure as questions, but Caboose was after all a Blue. But he was also Caboose. It complicated things.

“Well, they took our weapons anyway so the best we can do is fist-fighting,” Grif offered him.

“Aw. That’s not the same.” Caboose hung his head for a moment but then suddenly looked up at them again. “Did you bring a welcome basket? Ah, that’s okay, I forgot to bring you one. Can we share the house key?”

Grif shrugged. “I’m afraid we didn’t get one either.”

“Oh. Principal Millers is very forgetful. That’s okay though – I have to move again Friday. Principal Miller said I could only get a taste of this place. They must be renovating. Will you be moving too?”

“Well, that depends when your Sergeant is going to let us out. _If_ he lets us out.” Simmons suppressed a shudder at the thought. This was not how he wanted to die. To be fair, he was not really a fan of any death scenario, but being killed by Blues like this was definitely a humiliating death.

“Yeah, do you know if he’s a fan of firing squad or starving people to death?” Grif asked Caboose through the bars.

The question did not calm Simmons’ mind, and so he shrieked, “ _Grif_.”

“I just want to say that firing squad is the coolest option,” he told them. “It’s quicker, more dramatic _and_ you get a last meal.”

“You got your plan sorted out then,” Simmons snorted.

“Oh, of course you have some super smart logical bullet-proof mind-blowing escape plan worked out yourself ‘cause you are such a flawless smartass.”

“I-“

The argument was stopped before it could truly begin by Caboose who asked with a low voice, “Are you two breaking up again?”

“No. We were having an argument. Platonic,” Simmons had to add.

Caboose nodded. “Because of all the plans.”

“That’s not what the word means.”

“Principal Miller won’t shoot you,” Caboose told Grif, actually answering his question. “He’s saving all the bullets and get very mad if you accidently lose them in your teammate’s back.”

“Yep, I hate when that happens,” Grif said flatly after smacking his lips.

“Is that why you are mad at Simon?” Caboose kept shifting his glance to look at them both.

“No.” Grif shrugged. “He is just being an asshole.”

“Aw.” Caboose was quiet for a second but then his voice turned somber. “Church used to call me that. I miss Church.”

“Almost feeling nostalgic about Blood Gulch, huh.” After thinking about his sentence for a second, Grif had to continue, “No, wait, I forgot I hated that place as well. Filled with assholes.”

Simmons snorted loudly, resting his arms on his knees. It did not seem like they were going to leave any time soon. “Like you were the perfect roommate.”

“I have my own room now and you’re still a pain in my ass,” Grif pointed out flatly, and Simmons had to pull his head back a little, taken by surprise by the hiss in his voice.

“You did not get to share a room?” Caboose asked them in horror. “That’s very sad. Bunkbeds are the best.”

“Not when sharing it with Grif. Do you know how loud he snores? ‘cause I would not be surprised if you could hear it at Blue Base.”

“I’m sure your new bunkmate is much more charming,” Grif replied, voice a bit too cold. “Why don’t you tell Caboose all about your new best friend?”

“You found a new best friend?” Caboose gasped again but he did not sound excited this time. He turned his head to stare at Grif the moment after he had asked Simmons the question.

“Owen is just-“ Simmons searched for the right words and could not find them. In the end he decided to just start a new sentence, one that would throw the blame back at Grif where it belonged. “At least he hasn’t been ignoring me.”

Grif glared at him. “You were the one who pulled the face-stunt just to seem fucking cool. What is this – high school?”

“Oh no, I’m late to class,” Caboose exclaimed, sounding actually stressed about the fact.

Simmons ignored him and decided to focus solely on Grif’s accusations.  He had to defend himself. “Unlike you I wanted I wanted to make a good first impression.”

“That was pretty fucking obvious.” Grif briefly fell quiet before suddenly telling Simmons, “You haven’t thanked me for playing along yet by the way.”

“What?” If Simmons sounded confused it was because he truly was confused. He tried to come up with an idea of what Grif was talking about but his brain seemed to have frozen.

“C’mon, Simmons. You can’t seriously be pissed that I stayed away – or did you forget your fucking heart attack when I showed by face in the mess hall? ‘cause I could have done that weeks ago. But you had your whole cool-act going on so…” Grif shrugged and looked away, suddenly very interested in the wall behind the bars.

The realization slowly crept up on Simmons, like a cat resting on his stomach despite Simmons’ allergy. It was unwanted but it did not want to go away.

Simmons had panicked when they asked about his cyborg parts. He had not thought further of his answer. He had not realized this was why Grif had kept his distance, isolating himself in his room. Because he had played along with Simmons’ explanation.

The moment Grif had taken off the helmet the rumors had begun, and Simmons’ anxiety had skyrocketed. But Grif could have joined them in the mess hall weeks ago. But he had stayed away for Simmons’ fault, because of Simmons’ stupid comment.

And Simmons had just been… angry.

Because Grif had been picked instead of him.

Or maybe more correctly: because Simmons just had not been picked.

Grif looked up from the floor, his tired voice pulling Simmons out of his thoughts. “You’re pretty fucking petty, you know that, right?”

Simmons’ mouth felt very dry but he finally managed to say the words. “I didn’t know. About Rat’s Nest specializing in vehicles. And you are a very good driver. It makes sense.”

Grif was quiet for three seconds – enough time for Simmons’ heart to start beating faster. It had been hard enough to finally put words to the guilt that had been plaguing him for too long, and he had not even dared to imagine what his response would be.

“Wow, was that an actual compliment? And you did not choke or anything?”

Something loosened inside Simmons’ chest, and he instinctually rolled his eyes. “Well, you could make it easier for me by being a competent Sergeant.”

“Did you call yourself maroon? ‘cause you seem pretty fucking green.”

“I’m pretty sure you guys are red,” Caboose said with a headshake, reminding them of his presence. “Otherwise I think we might have the title wrong.”

“Green with jealousy,” Grif explained roughly.

“It’s actually called green with envy,” Simmons’ mouth corrected him automatically.

Grif silently stared at him.

Simmons swallowed some spit, realizing just the true meaning of the sentence. “I-“

“I get a promotion is important to you,” Grif cut in quickly. “And that it is a family tradition and it’s the only way your father will acknowledge you or make your mother remember your name and-“

At some point he lost Simmons who blinked and had to ask, “What?”

Grif sighed deeply. “This place is filled with weird people, okay.”

“Tell me about it.” Simmons sighed as well. “I mean, these assholes are kinda mean. They pick a person and say he’s the worst person on the team and they call him a meat shield and waste of space and no one is allowed to hang around near him and if you do it’s like a social taboo and the guy did not really deserve all the hate. I guess. Just hating a person with no real reason to hate him is kinda a shitty thing to do.”

“Probably, yeah.” Grif rubbed the back of his neck, tilting his head towards his teammate. “Good thing I snore, huh. So you have a reason to bitch at me.”

Simmons let out one faint chuckle. “I am sure I can come up with other reasons.”

“And there goes your nice apology.”

“Right.” He felt his face grow warm. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t ask to be a Sergeant, you know,” Grif said, flicking a pebble away from the floor with his finger. “People here are just mindnumbing crazy. You are obviously better at the whole paperwork and orders thing. Good for me this place just wants amazing driving skills ‘cause you seriously suck and I am never letting you near a vehicle ever again.”

Someone sniffed, and they both turned to look at Caboose who was staring intensely at them, hands folded under his chin. “This is so touching.”

Grif held up his hands to stop him. “Nope. No it’s not. Do not turn this thing into a moment ‘cause it’s not.”

“Will you two share a bunk again?” the Blue asked hopefully.

“That might not be happening, Caboose,” Simmons said with a low sigh in his voice. Caboose was not aware of how Red Team worked, and how the rumors would only grew worse if Simmons moved in with Grif and there was no freaking way Simmons would do that now.

Caboose just nodded. “Ah. It’s hard to decide who gets the top bunk. I vote Grif.”

“You-“ Simmons suddenly froze, lifting his head in confusion (and a tiny bit of hurt). “Wait, just why would you vote Grif?”

Caboose had just inhaled sharply to reveal his answer but was cut off by a bit too familiar voice that suddenly rung through the cells. Simmons flinched.

“Sergeant Grif!” Owen came running into the room at full speed, not even panting the slightest. His head tilted when he saw Simmons next to their leader. “And Private Simmons. I am so relieved to see you both alive.”

As they were apparently about to be rescued, Grif slowly stood up. “You too, buddy,” he said in this weird, flat tone that made it easy to doubt his words.

“Don’t you dare to try anything, you blue bastard.” Owen aimed his rifle at Caboose with a growl. Despite the threat the Blue remained sitting, seemingly confused.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Grif told Owen with a shrug. “They threw him down here ‘cause he’s a Red sympathizer.”

That caused Owen to lower his rifle just the slightest. “Really?”

Caboose nodded. “I always mess up my crayons.”

“No kidding, you called me yellow,” Grif muttered under his breath, so low that only Simmons heard it as he passed his teammate to get near the locked entrance at the cell.

“Can you get us out?” he asked Owen, gesturing towards the lock.

Owen flashed a key card in front of his face. “Of course,” he said smoothly and a second later the cell door was open.

“You are weirdly effective,” Grif let him know as they walked out to join him.

“Thank you, sir.” Owen was beaming at this point, Simmons could see it.  “I’ll let you know that I have killed all the guards surrounding the base as well.”

“On your own?” Simmons could not help but ask, barely stopping his jaw from dropping.

Owen raised his chin in pride. “I have a certain talent when it comes to killing.”

“Oh. That’s handy.” Simmons wrung his hands, unsure of just which comments to add to this conversation. So instead he asked, “How did you find us?”

“When you did not return I set up a rescue mission. I let Nielsen distract the other Blues we met here, so our Warthog is ready for you to go.” Owen was already heading down the hallway, apparently ready to storm their way out of here.

Grif and Simmons were about to follow him when a voice called out from behind them, “But I thought we were having dinner together.”

“Oh, shit, Caboose.” They turned around to see the Blue still sitting on the floor in his cell.

Simmons had just taken one step forward when Grif grabbed his wrist. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed quietly so Owen could not hear. “We can’t let him out. What do you think the others will do to him if we take him to Red Base? ‘sides, he’s getting out in two days. As long as he doesn’t fuck up again – fuck, we are talking about Caboose.” He groaned before turning to ask Caboose, “What did you do anyway?”

“Lieutenant Bowers tripped and-“

Grif visor-palmed, connecting the dots from there. “Yeah, we get the picture.”

“Sorry, Caboose, we’ll have to move the dinner to another time,” Simmons said apologetically and looked over his shoulder to make sure Owen had not returned to see what they were doing. He began to run down the hallway so the other private would not grow suspicious.

“Oh.” The Blue actually sounded _sad_. It made it hard to leave him. But they should obviously leave him – did they even have any other choices? Grif was right, and their teammates would just shoot him. And it was not like they could hide Caboose in their room or something. He was not a puppy. Okay, maybe he was a little bit like a puppy.

“I’ll come visit,” Grif promised as he began to follow Simmons.

“Pinky-promise?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

Owen was waiting at the exit of the building, rifle lifted to make sure no Blues would sneak up on them. “I suppose you two had fun alone,” he said jokingly when Simmons showed up.

“We were ambushed,” Simmons replied flatly and looked at the dead bodies that Owen had left behind when he stormed the jail. At least four Blues had died here. Huh. Owen truly was weirdly effective.

“Fun fact: the others actually started a rumor that you guys did not return because you had suffered a lover’s quarrel where you had ended up killing Grif.”

“ _What_?!” Simmons turned his head to stare at Owen again. “I’d never do that!”

“Right. I know you, Simmons.” Owen fell quietly as Grif finally caught up with them, panting after running down the hallway that had been embarrassingly short. “Do you want the driver’s seat, sir?” the Private asked politely, gesturing towards the Warthog that had been halted only a few inches away from one of the bodies. Judging from the wheel tracks, Owen had arrived here in great speed.

“Do I look like a taxi driver right now?” Grif grunted, and they all ran towards the vehicle. Owen swung himself into the driver’s seat since Grif was apparently too exhausted to be the driver right now. The Sergeant placed himself in the seat next to him, leaving Simmons to get behind the machine gun.

He had just grabbed the weapon to secure his footing when he heard gunfire in the distance.

“Ah, sounds like Nielsen is doing his job,” Owen explained after letting out a pleased sound.

Simmons decided to say something before Owen could step on gas. “Wait, shouldn’t we bring him with us?” he asked, trying not to sound worried. Because he was not. Really. He just did not find it completely fair to leave Nielsen behind like this.

“The team kinda agreed he should sacrifice himself for our leader,” Owen replied with a shrug. He adjusted a gear and the vehicle came to life. “Besides a Warthog only has three seats,” he added casually, a slight snort in the end of the sentence.

A Blue sniper showed up in the distance, and Simmons jumped when shots were fired towards them.

Owen floored the gas pedal, bringing them out of harm’s way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. As some of you might know, I have been on a two weeks vacation which I why I have not been updating stories. But here we go.
> 
> Also, before I left, I promised a lot of new stuff. Look, stuff will be coming, but during these weeks I have become a bit… insecure (kinda. Idk.) about myself and my stuff. Look, chances are they will still be published. I will just try to write more of it before posting it. One of the major problems is a plot being much longer than what I usually write and I am so scared of losing interest and you guys are stuck with a half-finished story. So to sum it up: new stuff will be coming, just not as early as I promised you.
> 
> But I can tease about an upcoming story that is a co-work and I cannot describe how excited I am about this. It’ll be good, trust me.
> 
> And seriously… The amount of built-up I have made for a joke in the next chapter. Oh, I do enjoy laughing at myself.
> 
> Thank you for the support! Only two more chapters to go!


	8. Subject My Cyborg Ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But what if it’s exactly like a crime novel?!” he gasped. “Like _Bloody Murder_. Where a seriously twisted author leads their readers astray by leaving so many stupidly obvious clues only pointing towards one suspect who then gets all the blame while in reality it was the janitor all along and no one saw it coming! Maybe-“ Simmons said, eyes wide as he looked at Grif, “we are all wrong about Owen.”
> 
> “Or maybe Owen is a total creep.”
> 
> “Yeah. That could be it.”

“What about shotgun’s lap?” Simmons could not help but suggest carefully. He was clinging onto the machinegun, close to falling off when Owen sped up so quickly that he left tire marks on the concrete floor.

“What in the world is a shotgun’s lap?” Owen yelled back at him.

Grif sighed in the seat next to him. “Lucky man. You’ve never tried shotgun’s lap.”

“Am… Am I shotgun? Is it my lap?”

“Are we sure we shouldn’t go back for him?” Simmons asked, feeling the knot of guilt growing in his stomach. Sarge had taught him plenty strategies that involved leaving a man behind (the man always being Grif) but they had never really put those plans into action.

“Meatshields usually work better if you keep them alive,” Grif added, “so they can take a bullet for you later when you need it more. Trust me, I know all about that.”

Owen slowed the jeep down just the slightest when even the Sergeant objected, and he even let out a considering sound, as if he was about to turn the Warthog around. But then he pointed out something the others had not noticed. “The gunfire has stopped.”

“Well, shit.” Grif leaned back in his seat. “He’s dead.”

Simmons was about to object but if Nielsen was not dead then it meant he had taken out all the Blues alone and well… The guy was totally dead.

“Time to get you two back to base,” Owen said and slammed his heel on the speeder again.

The rest of the ride home went rather smoothly, a few bumps in the road here and there, but Simmons was not sure he could blame the uneasy feeling in his stomach on the unsteady driving.

So when Nielsen returned to Red Base two hours later, limping and with plenty of bullets to be dug out from his armor, Simmons could not help but inhale deeply in relief.

* * *

It was almost time for curfew before Owen returned to their room which was something so unusual that it had Simmons pacing back and forth. If Owen, of all people, was breaking the rules, something was clearly off.

Well, more off. Off- _er_. Because something had been off with Owen for a while now, and Simmons could no longer ignore the suspicious vibes that was coming from his fellow teammate. Maybe there was just a certain amount of times where you could bring up “murder” and “killing” before it began to sound suspicious. Or maybe it was just the weird too happy laughter. Or maybe it was the fact that he had left Nielsen to die.

When Owen had returned them to Rat’s Nest the welcome had been rather mediocre. There had not been a crowd of concerned faces ready to bring them to medical, praising the gods that they were back while asking them over and over if they were alright.

Kohl had been there, immediately running to Grif to tell him how happy he was that Simmons had not brutally murdered him. That had to count as some kind of concern. Just not directed towards Simmons.

He had run into Snell on his way back to their quarters. The Lieutenant looked somewhat disappointed, shoulders slumped. He did not react when Simmons half-heartedly greeted him. The maroon soldier had been too tired to feel hurt by the lack of politeness.

Simmons had planned to just drop dead in his bed and sleep. Almost dying was tiring. Of course near death experiences should be a part of his usual routine by now, though Simmons did prefer to avoid them.

The thought of Caboose alone in his cell made Simmons’ stomach turn with something that was probably pity but Grif had been right. At least this way Caboose did not get shot by any Reds. And by keeping him in Blue Base there was a chance he might shoot more Blue teammates by accident, which would just improve Red Team’s efficiency.

But the moment Simmons closed his eyes to rest the realization hit him.

He was alone.

Grif had wandered off in the direction of his own personal quarters after telling Simmons he would see him later. At least their time in jail had made the dialogue softer between them. Even though admitting fault was never that fun…

But Owen was not here. And it was getting late.

Even after the news of Nielsen’s survival, Owen was yet to be seen.

And _that_ was something that made Simmons feel uneasy.

So when Owen finally stepped into the room, only three minutes before curfew, Simmons immediately blurted out, “Where have you been?” Realizing his voice had sounded somewhat accusing, enough to seem rude, he rubbed the back of his neck and added, “Just curious…”

Owen took off his helmet, blinking. “Well, at least it shows someone here is concerned when I go missing. No worries; I merely went to reclaim the Stag.”

“You brought it back?”

“Yep,” Owen answered proudly, pulling off the rest of his armor piece by piece. “It wasn’t really in a state to move and since the Blues had to use their vehicles to bring you to their devil hole, it was right where you left it. I am sure Sergeant Grif will be happy to see it back where it belongs. What a tragic accident, for it to break like that.”

“Yeah…” Simmons drew out the word to the point where his mouth felt dry. The talk in the cell had made him understand he had a lot to feel guilty for. But he did not recall messing up the Stag. “You didn’t see the Stag leaking or something like that earlier, did you?”

Owen’s head snapped in his direction to stare at him.

Simmons felt his cheeks grow warm. “It’s just, you know, you came from the direction of the garage when we met earlier so I was wondering if you maybe had seen something, you know, just wondering…”

“No. The garage was empty.”

“Oh.” Simmons swallowed. “That’s good. Thanks.”

Owen let out a small sighed before sitting on top of the drawer, bowing down so he could gain eye-contact with his teammate. “I might have picked up some completely wrong vibes here but I just can’t help but feel that you are upset with me.”

Simmons wrung his hands, eyes dropping so he was looking at the floor. He shrugged. “Well, I just feel that, well, maybe leaving Nielsen to die was a bit too much?”

Owen stared at him.

Simmons swallowed.

And then Owen let out a chuckle. “Oh, that’s funny.”

“…Really?”

“I thought you said your previous base had thirty-seven different retreating strategies that all involved Grif fulfilling his given duty as a meatshield. And it’s just…” He made strained considering sound. “I find it hard imagining _you_ telling your Sergeant that his plan is _a bit too much_.”

Simmons opened his mouth but no sound came out.

Owen shifted his wait on the drawer. “And, well, I know you, Simmons. I thought we understood each other. We both know that if you want that promotion you have to be ready to bury someone to get it.”

The irony was not lost on Simmons. Actually, it hit him like a brick to the face.

He frowned and lifted his head while Owen continued to stare at his in anticipation.

“…That’s a terrible euphemism,” Simmons finally said to break the tense silence. He threw out his arms to create gestures, keeping his hands busy. “Killing someone and burying someone are obviously two completely different things. Killing someone is bad. To bury someone… I mean, it happens, right? Sometimes Command accidently sends the wrong news to the wrong base and sometimes that ends in a premature funeral but no one can really blame you for that because the fault was clearly Command’s and how could anyone expect you not to take that opportunity and Sarge was alright in the end so _clearly_ burying someone is not the same as killing someone. Burying someone is forgivable.”

Owen stared until he had to blink. “…What?”

Simmons stood up as fast as possible, heading for the door. “I think I’ll go check up on Nielsen.”

“It’s past curfew,” Owen reminded him sourly.

“Oh,” Simmons said and left the room.

* * *

Checking up on Nielsen was a lie, but Simmons promised himself to go ask the Private how he was holding up tomorrow. If he had known which room Nielsen was sleeping in, he might have knocked, but right now he just needed an excuse to leave Owen behind.

A few guards on patrol saw him as he walked down the quiet hallways. Simmons did not bother hiding. They did not say anything about him being up, and they probably already had their minds set on where he was going.

…Well, they were not wrong.

The door was not locked so Simmons could step right into Grif’s room. The Sergeant was resting in his bed, trying to wave him off without removing his head from the pillow. “Go away. No serious Sergeant business today. I’ve taken a day off to mourn.”

“ _To mourn_?” Simmons repeated with a frown. “Grif, no one died. Nielsen has some bullet wounds but he’ll recover.”

“I know! If he’d died this place would have thrown a fucking party. No, to mourn because Nielsen didn’t die is the only excuse they’ll accept to leave me alone.”

“Oh.”

Grif groaned, finally turning over so he could stare at him. “What do you want, Simmons?”

“We need to talk,” Simmons said, marching over to sit on the bed. He could feel the heat from Grif’s body from where he was sitting. Why did Grif always have to be so comfortabl warm? The one time they had been forced to share bed was the only time Simmons had not fallen asleep cold in Rat’s Nest.

Grif did not sit up completely, but he did adjust himself against the pillow so he could have an easier time looking at Simmons. The blanket had fallen off from his torso, revealing he was still wearing his stupid “Hawaiian shirt”. Simmons would have to snatch it one day… To throw it out, of course.

“Didn’t we spend the entire day talking?” Grif pointed out.

“Well, the afternoon, at least. But this is about something else.”

“So this is not you telling me that I was right and you were wrong?”

Simmons breathed in deeply. “I think Owen is up to something.”

“Nooooo…” Grif pushed himself up with his palm. His surprised voice was too high to be genuine. “What makes you think that?!”

“Well, he’s said some stuff that makes me kinda suspicious…”

“You mean the forty-two times he has casually brought up _murder_ in a conversation? ‘cause I kept track.”

So it was not only Simmons who had been picking up on that. “…That’s a lot.”

Grif nodded. “Or maybe the guy has just read too many crime novels?! Too much murder on his brain,” he suggested sarcastically.

Then it hit Simmons.

“But what if it’s exactly like a crime novel?!” he gasped. “Like _Bloody Murder_. Where a seriously twisted author leads their readers astray by leaving so many stupidly obvious clues only pointing towards one suspect who then gets all the blame while in reality it was the janitor all along and no one saw it coming! Maybe-“ Simmons said, eyes wide as he looked at Grif, “we are all wrong about Owen.”

“Or maybe Owen is a total creep.”

“Yeah. That could be it.”

Grif groaned again, sounding very tired. He ran a hand through his hair before admitting, “So I heard some rumors that the Blues had been tipped off about Adamms’ squad. So I figured we should check for clues. And hoping we would not find something ‘cause I don’t want to deal with a conspiracy. That wasn’t in my contract.”

“And then we went there and the Stag stalled and the Blues just showed up…”

“Well,” Grif said with a shrug, “I’ve always had a case of bad luck.”

“This isn’t-“

“Simmons, chill, you’re the one who suggested getting rid of Owen in the first place.”

It took some seconds for Simmons to pick up his jaw and when he finally managed, his stutter was back, “I-I didn’t – I’ve done no such thing!”

“Sure. You just came to my room to file a complaint. Not to plan what to do about it.”

Simmons reached out and shoved his shoulder, not enough to make him lose his balance but to gain his full attention. “I came to warn you, you idiot. Owen…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Owen really wants a promotion.”

Grif let out a huff. “So Simmons 2.0 then.”

“Stop saying that,” Simmons hissed through gritted teeth. His face felt warm again. “I’m not- I _wouldn’t_ -“

“Shit,” Grif said and reached out to grab the wrist of one of Simmons’ flailing hands, “calm down.”

“Stop saying he’s me! He thinks _Star Trek_ is better than _Star Wars_!”

Grif faked a gasp. “The horror. Look, him being an extra uptight version of you – and I’m pretty mindfucked that such a version can actually exist – is a good thing.”

Simmons tore his hand free to throw up his arms. “ _HOW?!_ How is that a good thing?!”

“Because,” Grif continued, surprisingly calm, “now we know how to deal with him.”

Unable to follow his line of thoughts, Simmons frowned. “So what are we going to do?”

“Easy.” Grif had a bit too amused glint in his eyes, something that had not happened since they had been relocated. “We make Owen go Blue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How dare you all judge Owen like that? Hah, just kidding.
> 
> One chapter left! Thank you for all the support so far!


	9. Now If You'll Excuse Me, I Need To Go Dig a Hole To Live In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t you worry, Private Owen.” Grif’s voice was too smug, revealing that he definitely had planned this as well. “Should I die, which I won’t ‘cause I like to live, you will all mourn like you have never mourned before. For two weeks, at least, and you need to raise a giant statue in my honor. Oh, and Simmons will take care of things after I’m gone.”

“And of course I am doing all this because I care so much about your well-being. The responsibility for your small, precious lives is the sweetest duty I could ever have and yada yada yada you know the deal, add some sugar flakes on it, done, no complaints from any of you? Get it?”

It took some time but eventually the small group of red soldiers nodded. Some more reluctantly than others.

“But-“ Snell slowly raised a hand. “But what does that mean to us who are already-“

“You heard me, Snell. No Lieutenants.” Grif made a dramatic pause before suddenly turning his head to stare at him. “Snell, you’re fired.”

The soldier slowly lowered his head to stare at the ground in defeat.

Grif was enjoying the sight a bit too much when someone gently elbowed his side. Simmons cleared his throat before muttering to him, “ _Demoted_. You’re demoting him.”

“Right.” Grif held his breath, making sure this second attempt seemed just as dramatic. “Snell, you’re demoted.”

“With all respect, sir - and please don’t confuse this with me saying that Snell was qualified for his title in the first place – are you sure that this is a good idea? Lieutenants are there to support you, and I know many of us would be more than willing to-“

“Owen, I’m gonna have to stop you right there.” Grif held up a hand, and Owen immediately fell quiet. Simmons was suddenly very grateful for his helmet that could hide his grin – this was just a bit too satisfying for Simmons not to react. “It has become very, extremely obvious that the Blues are targeting the important people here. Which is why my solution makes sense. Let’s introduce some anarchy… Or is it socialism? I don’t know. Point is – no titles. No Lieutenants, no promotions. Just a bunch of common, equal, not-important people. And then me. The Sergeant. Very important.”

Owen tilted his head. “Sergeant Grif, we are some who would be honored to take the risk-“

“Not happening. My big, selfless heart can’t take it. Sorry, guys. You mean too much to me, all of you, even you-“ He spun around, pointing at one of the red soldiers in the crowd. Simmons knew him, he had seen him before, in the background, never really saying anything of importance. The name kept escaping his brain so he could not blame Grif for forgetting it as well. “-guy I can’t remember what is called. So let me take this one for the team. As your super awesome Sergeant.”

Simmons was standing some meters behind Grif, allowing a good view of his comrades. Most were just shifting slightly, unsure of just how to react – but then again, most of them were Privates and did not experience a major change. But there was no denying that a lot of people in Rat’s Nest were competitive, and now they had just been stolen their chance of achievement.

Of course he was keeping a close eye on Owen who was keeping his back uncomfortable straight as he looked directly at Grif. “That is very honorable of you, Sergeant Grif, but I have to point out it’s quite a big risk you are taking. You’ll just make yourself an even bigger target. A lot could go wrong. We’ve already lost a Sergeant once, and, well, what would we do if you met a quick, terrible end like that?”

Simmons knew Owen was distraught. Oh, Owen was past fooling Simmons with his smooth façade. This had to be a blow for him, and Simmons was going to enjoy seeing what would come next-

“Don’t you worry, Private Owen.” Grif’s voice was too smug, revealing that he definitely had planned this as well. “Should I die, which I won’t ‘cause I like to live, you will all mourn like you have never mourned before. For two weeks, at least, and you need to raise a giant statue in my honor. Oh, and Simmons will take care of things after I’m gone.”

Everyone turned their head to stare at Simmons who was currently trying not to swallow his own tongue from pure surprise.

* * *

Simmons was upset. _Upset_ was a good way to describe what he was feeling right now, since he had a hard time actually putting a name on those exact feelings.

When Grif had said he had it all planned out, Simmons had trusted him. That had probably been a mistake. But Grif had sent him that stupid, reassuring smile that always saved Simmons from thoughts that could grow into panic attacks.

So of course when Grif had insisted he had the Owen-problem under control, Simmons had let himself relax. Somewhat.

He hadn’t been able to return to his bed since, first of all, it was past curfew and the door was probably locked, and second but most importantly: Simmons was not going to be alone with Owen again. _Ever_. Simmons liked staying alive, thank you very much.

Grif had offered to share his bed again, at the cost of some rather annoying comments but Simmons could live with that. And the Sergeant’s bed was bigger and softer than Simmons’, and Grif was always annoyingly comfortably warm to sleep next to.

But Grif had never mentioned Simmons being his successor.

Well, not that it mattered or anything. Simmons was definitely not feeling proud or touched or any sort of pleasant, warm feeling right now. Because Grif was not going to die so why even care. Pfft. Simmons had not seen this coming-

And neither had the others.

Snell had continued to bug Grif about the loss of his status as Lieutenant, so even after Grif had dismissed them all, Grif had tried to shake him off – only to lose Simmons as well.

So now Simmons was alone in the hallway with Owen.

Which was no reason to panic, of course. No way Owen was stupid enough to kill Simmons in plain view like that.

“What a surprise, huh?” Owen said, leaning back against the wall. “I did not see that coming.”

“Yeah, uhm, well, it’s quite hard to expect that sort of logic.” Simmons laughed nervously and waited for Owen to chuckle.

He didn’t.

“It is certainly noble of him. It’s quite the position he has put himself in. Very dangerous… He should probably keep an eye out.”

Simmons swallowed, and his throat felt so tight that it hurt. “…Why?”

“Well, you have heard of late Sergeant Pazner’s demise?” Simmons nodded and he continued, “I won’t accuse anyone of anything, but Nielsen was complaining an awfully lot the week before his death.”

“…You’re telling me to keep an eye on _Nielsen_?”

Owen nodded gravely. “There is a reason why all hate him, Simmons. You know, beside all his obvious flaws.”

And suddenly Simmons remembered Blood Gulch. Early Blood Gulch. From just before Donut arrived. When it was just him and Grif and Sarge, and he was told that Grif was useless and lazy and disgusting (okay, Grif might still be lazy and his manners could be improved) and that he should hate him.

Things had been different when they left Blood Gulch, when Simmons had given Sarge the final solute and Grif had hugged his sister goodbye in the distance.

Things were different now, here in Rat’s Nest.

“I don’t think I should be worried about Nielsen.”

Owen chuckled. Simmons wanted to punch him.

“Who knows, Simmons? You might want to take care of yourself. With your new position – congratulations by the way, it seems like you’ve won – someone might want to get rid of you.”

That was true. And it was definitely part of the reason why Simmons felt more than just pride when he was announced the successor; a little bit of fear and dread and maybe some anger because _why had Grif decided to paint a bullseye on Simmons’ back like this without even warning him…¨_

Simmons let out the biggest sigh since leaving Blood Gulch. “Jealousy sucks,” he told Owen, looking up at him.

He pulled his head back in surprise though his voice remained calm. “I’m not-“

Simmons held up his hands to cut him off. “No, look, I get it. I know how it feels when someone else gets picked over you. It’s horrible and totally unfair and deep inside you know that you would have been a much better choice and you wonder if they even bothered to read your resume – and you have these terrible feelings inside of you and you end up making some terrible choices… But what I am saying is that this doesn’t make it okay to murder someone.”

He was slightly breathless when his rant was done but he set his jaw and waited for Owen’s response. He hoped he was not going to get shot since they were alone in the hallway and Owen’s pistol was right there on his thigh and accidents could happen…

“…What?” Owen finally, shifting. Oh god, was he reaching for a weapon? Or maybe just scratching his arm?

Simmons took a step back and let out a nervous chuckle. “What? I mean, who were talking about killing people? Not me, heh, ‘cause that would be weird and random and wrong-“

The door behind them slid open and Simmons could have cried in relief. For a brief moment he thought Grif would come to his rescue – not that Simmons needed rescuing or anything – but instead Nielsen hobbled towards them, leaning heavily on his crutches. “Sergeant Grif wants to talk with you.”

Simmons could have hugged him. “I’ll be going then-“

“Not you.” Nielsen slowly turned his head to stare at Owen who seemed to grow two inches taller.

“What for?”

“I don’t know.” Nielsen shrugged and winched since his shoulder was still bandaged. “Maybe you’re the one getting fired. Since you are definitely not getting a promotion.”

That comment just seemed to raise the already high level of tension, and Simmons quickly cut in, “Actually, I think Sergeant Grif might have been talking about a _special_ assignment…”

“Hmm. Seems like your _strategy_ might not be completely flawless. Cross your fingers for me.”

When Owen left, Simmons was left alone with Nielsen – and that was a whole other sort of tension. Simmons saw the private’s bandages and crutches, and he lowered his head.

“I, uh, sorry for not waiting for you. Yesterday. You know, at Blue Base.”

Nielsen smacked his lips. “Yeah. That sucked.”

“You… You did quite well. With the whole not-dying thing.”

“It’s sorta my specialty,” he said with a shrug. He shook his head in the direction where Owen had walked off. “So what does he want?”

“A promotion,” Simmons huffed bitterly. But he knew what this special mission entailed.

“He won’t find that here,” Nielsen pointed out. “Unless Sergeant Grif, dies of course.”

Simmons swallowed. “…Do you think he’d do that?”

“What – Owen? Do _you_ really think he has the guts to pull that off?”

Well, according to Grif then Owen had brought up murder forty-two times (forty-five if counting the conversation he had just had with Simmons) and Reds here always seemed to die from mysterious reasons and Owen’s smile was just not right…

So, yeah, maybe it was time to panic.

“I gotta go,” he said, already walking quickly towards the door. “Sorry again for the whole… _thing_. I wish we had turned around.”

“Maybe next time.”

And then Simmons ran. Maybe he was just a little bit paranoid. It was not like they had ever caught Owen in the act but ever since Grif had agreed with his suspicion, Simmons could not help but see potential crime scenes everywhere.

Plus, Owen had been right: Grif was the only one with a proper title now.

So Simmons rushed to Grif’s room, not even bothering to knock before storming inside. His sudden entrance was rewarded with shocked glances from both Grif and Owen who were standing in the center of the room. They had seemingly been in the middle of a talk but now there was only shocked silence.

“Uh…”

“I’ll talk with you later, Private Simmons,” Grif said and gave him a small thumbs-up from behind Owen’s back.

None of them were holding a gun, so that was at least comforting. Simmons muttered a quiet apology and retreated to wait in the hallway.  

A few minutes later Owen stepped out of the door, and Simmons noted that there were no bloodstains on his armor.

On the other hand, he did look like he had just won the lottery; chin raised high and back straight.

“So… What happened?” Simmons asked, trying to sound casual. He should probably put his hands in his pockets and whistle carelessly – but he did not have any pockets so that approach was ruined.

“Well, I don’t know how much I can reveal… Except that Sergeant Grif claims I am the only one skilled enough.”

“Oh, that sounds… big.”

Owen puffed out his chest. “It will be an undercover job. So of course it will be very risky-“

“You’re going to Blue Base! Oh my! That’s… That’s shocking. Who would have seen that coming?” Simmons tried his best to fake a surprised gasp.

“It will be strange leaving Red Base,” Owen admitted, “but someone has to be useful around here. Sergeant Grif really wants that secret intel. I suppose your strategy backfired, Simmons. A bedwarmer isn’t given a chance to leave this place.”

“Oof. Yes. I have so many regrets… I suppose you’ve earned whatever you get out of this.”

Owen sent him one last smile. “Don’t worry. When I return, we will have neutralized the enemy. I am going to climb the ladder of prestige all the way out of this base.” He then spun around on his heel, marching down the hallway with big, confident steps. “If you’ll excuse me, then I have to go find some blue paint.”

* * *

He left the next day.

Simmons watched him go and held up a hand in a half-hearted goodbye, and suddenly he was reminded of his own first school day where his mother had watched him leave home. Oh well. Good luck in the big, blue world, Owen.

“See you soon,” Simmons muttered sarcastically under his breath.

“One more off my list.”

Simmons froze and slowly turned around to see Nielsen standing behind him. The injured soldier had his arms crossed, and he was staring intensely towards the distance where Owen was walking away. He seemed almost oblivious to Simmons’ presence.

The maroon soldier swallowed before following his stare. Owen was but a blue dot now.

Perhaps he was not supposed to have heard that comment.

Well, shit.

* * *

“So, yeah, Nielsen _might_ be the murderer,” Simmons told Grif hours later when he had still not been able to shrug off the comment.

“Hmm… Well, Owen was still a dick.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely.”

Grif leaned back in his bed, making space for Simmons to sit next to him. “Good thing we got rid of him. Can’t wait ‘till we are legally allowed to shoot him. We might even get a medal for it. Dirty blue traitor, huh.”

The plan was to leave Owen to do what he did best – pursue a promotion. Grif had remembered just why Caboose had been jailed.

Lieutenant Bowers had died. From _unclear_ reason (cough, Caboose, cough).

Which left an open spot in Blue Team.

Simmons had been doubtful but Grif was sure Owen’s so-called _Simmons_ -ness would kick in and he would make the sacrifices needed to gain the title. Simmons had protested but then Grif had reminded him of how he had once turned blue – though it was only fair to point out that it had been an entirely different situation and Simmons’ reason had been fair, and he had returned to Red Base in a matter of hours anyway, so it didn’t really count.

“Technically, if your plan works, which is a big _if_ , then we have just given Owen an actual reason to shoot at us.”

Grif waved him off. “Meh, we can handle him. And if Nielsen tries to murder us, at least he’s your buddy.”

“I don’t-“

“ _Please_. You’re like the one person who isn’t a total jackass to him. I didn’t know you had that side in you.”

Simmons knew that Grif was just teasing but, well, they both remembered early Blood Gulch. Rat’s Nest had been a good reminder of their early beginnings.

He wrung his hands. “I suppose I’m not the one who’s made everyone hate him.”

Grif rolled his eyes. “C’mon. They love me.”

“They kissed your ass in the beginning. Now they just hate your guts. Good job.”

“What about you, Simmons? Are you still kissing my ass?”

Grif stared at him, head tilted, eyes narrowed, and lips curled upwards in a smug smile.

Simmons stared back. “Nah,” he said and smiled as well.

“I actually know how you can get a promotion.” After running a hand through his hair, Grif poked Simmons’ shoulder.

“I thought you had forbidden Lieutenants.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but if you help me get down the firewall then you can be Super Private, Double First Class.”

It would be a lie to say it was not tempting. Not exactly a Lieutenant but… It was a long title.  But Grif would never just give him such a satisfaction. Simmons narrowed his eyes. “…Why do you need a firewall taken down?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll enjoy it.”

“Now I’m definitely worried.”

Grif snorted. “Just wait ‘till I tell how we’re getting the money to go to the Vegas Quadrant again.”

“We- Grif, we’re not going back there!” Simmons said after almost choking on air. He still remembered their first visit – well, parts of it. The drinks had been good and sweet, especially the margaritas. And Grif had laughed a lot, and so had Simmons, and things had been colorful and nice and good…

“Don’t worry, I got it covered,” Grif said, as if Simmons had been frowning because he thought about how to buy tickets. “Oh, and I’ll be seeing Caboose again soon, by the way.”

Simmons had gone so far without thinking about Caboose alone in his cell. Now Grif ruined it. And while the idea of giving Caboose a visit did somewhat comfort him, it also annoyed him that he had no freaking clue of what Grif was planning. “What the fuck are you-“

Grif looked him straight in the eyes, and that was enough to make him fall silent. “Just trust me, Simmons.”

And so he did.

It might have been a mistake, though. Especially months later, when Simmons thought back of the whole thing.

Some parts of Grif plan had been brought to life. He had visited Caboose, and he had earned some money on his illegal trade with the Blues. They just never made it to the Vegas Quadrant.

Owen never returned. He never earned his promotion either. He walked next to Caboose one day, and, well, accidents happen. Caboose ended up back in his cell where he would later be found.

Grif and Simmons ended up in front of firing squad.

But they didn’t know all that yet.

Eventually Simmons left Grif’s room, despite his offer to stay for the night. But Simmons figured there were enough rumors already, and there was no reason to make the squad hate them more than necessary.

Besides, Simmons had something to do.

He returned to his own quarters which were empty now when Owen was gone. For a moment Simmons just stood in the doorway and once again tried to convince himself that this was in fact his home.

He was not sure if succeeded but he stepped forward so he could open his drawer. Underneath his neatly folded clothes, he found the old photograph of Red Team.

Simmons looked at Grif, Sarge, Donut, Lopez and himself.

Then he placed it on top of the furniture with a small smile.

And for some reason he had this feeling that he might see them again.

But if not…

Well, Rat’s Nest sucked. But at least Grif was here to suffer with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS JOURNEY!
> 
> This story has been so much fun to write, and I actually grew quite attached to my OCs. I'll miss them.
> 
> Thank you for all your support, it means so much to me! I hope you enjoyed this final chapter.


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